97) 


1  •>  ^ 


m&MPNiWT'S  j 

£ 

GRAND  PANORAMIC  PICTURE  l 


or 


II 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


o 


https://archive.org/details/champneysgrandpaOOpoor 


CHAMPNEY’S 


GRAND  PANORAMIC  PICTURE 

OF 


RHINELAND 


9 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

DESCRIPTIONS  OF  THE  SCENERY;  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  RIVER; 
THE  CITIES,  TOWNS,  AND  RUINS;  THE  AGRICULTURAL  AND 
NATURAL  PRODUCTIONS;  THE  PEOPLE,  THEIR 
MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS;  THE  VINEYARDS 
AND  VINTAGES  ;  THE  STUDENTS  AND 

student-life;  the  military 
forces;  THE  gambling 

ESTABLISHMENTS, 

ETC. 

"WITH  A  SELECTION  OF 

LEGENDS,  BALLADS,  AND  SONGS, 

SELECTED  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


COMPILED  BY  BEN:  PERLEY  POORE. 


For  sale  at  the  Ixhibition,  Horticultural  Hall,  School  Street. 


BOSTON: 

PRINTED  AT  THE  DAILY  BEE  OFFICE. 

MDCCCXLIX. 


G2£i222£2r23B0 


IN  MAGNITUDE  THE  FOURTH  RIVER  OF  EUROPE,  AND  ONE  OF 
THE  NOBLEST  RIVERS  OF  THE  WORLD. 

There  are  rivers  whose  course  is  longer,  and  whose  volume  of  water  is 
greater,  but  none  which  unites  almost  everything  that  can  render  an 
earthly  object  magnificent  and  charming,  in  the  same  degree  as  the 
Rhine.  As  it  flows  down  from  the  distant  ridges  of  the  Alps,  through 
fertile  regions  into  the  open  sea,  so  it  comes  down  from  remote  antiquity, 
associated  in  every  age  with  momentous  events  in  the  history  of  the 
neighboring  nations.  A  river  which  presents  so  many  historical  recollec¬ 
tions  of  Roman  conquest  and  defeats,  of  the  chivalric  exploits  in  the 
feudal  periods,  of  the  wars  and  negotiations  of  modern  times,  of  the  coro¬ 
nations  of  emperors,  whose  bones  repose  by  its  side ;  on  whose  borders 
stand  the  two  grandest  monuments  of  noble  architecture  of  the  middle 
ages  ;  whose  banks  present  every  variety  of  wild  and  picturesque  rocks, 
thick  forests,  fertile  plains  ;  vineyards,  sometimes  gently  sloping,  some¬ 
times  perched  among  lofty  crags,  where  industry  has  won  a  domain 
among  the  fortresses  of  nature ;  whose  hanks  are  ornamented  with  popu¬ 
lous  cities,  flourishing  towns  and  villiages,  castles  and  ruins,  with  which 
a  thousand  legends  are  connected ;  with  beautiful  and  romantic  roads, 
and  salutary  mineral  springs  ;  a  river  whose  waters  offer  choice  fish,  as 
its  banks  offer  the  choicest  wines ;  which,  in  its  course  of  nine  hundred 
miles,  affords  six  hundred  and  thirty  miles  of  uninterrupted  navigation, 
from  Basle  to  the  sea,  and  enables  the  inhabitants  of  its  banks  to  ex¬ 
change  the  rich  and  various  products  of  its  shores  ;  whose  cities,  famous 
for  commerce,  science,  and  works  of  strength,  which  furnish  protection 
to  Germany,  are  also  famous  as  the  seats  of  Roman  colonies,  and  of 
ecclesiastical  councils,  and  are  associated  with  many  of  the  most  im¬ 
portant  events  recorded  in  the  history  of  mankind  ;  —  such  a  river  it  is 
not  surprising  that  the  Germans  regard  with  a  kind  of  reverence,  and 
frequently  call  it  in  poetry  Father ,  or  King  Rhine.  —  Dr.  Lieber. 


EH  IN  ELAND. 


SECTION  I. 

THE  BEAUTIES  OF  RHINELAND. 

Rhineland  !  It  is  not  very  many  months  since  we 
passed  a  summer  there,  pedestrianizing  with  merry 
bands  of  German  students,  or  viewing  from  some  steam¬ 
er’s  deck  the  vine-wreathed  hills,  storied  ruins,  and  tower¬ 
ing  crags,  which  so  endear  the  Rhine  to  the  lover  of  the 
picturesque  and  the  beautiful  —  but  we  must  acknowledge 
that  on  seeing  Champney’s  delineations  of  all  these  en¬ 
chanting  scenes,  we  were  half  inclined  to  regret  not  having 
spared  ouselvesthe  time  occupied  in  the  trip,  and  awaited 
their  arrival  in  America.  No  wonder  that  Mr.  J.  T. 
Fields  wrote, 

“  I’ve  sailed  on  ocean  to  behold  the  Rhine, 

That  world  of  beauty  bursting  on  the  view, 

But  now  yotjk.  canvas  wafts  to  me  the  vine 

And  rock-clad  hills  long  since  I  wandered  through. 

Twin-castled  River,  far  away  no  more,  — 

What  further  need  the  Atlantic  wave  to  plough  ? 

You’ve  brought  old  Coblentz  to  my  very  door, 

And  Ehrenbreitstein  is  my  neighbor  now !” 

Here  we  have  the  “  Beauties  of  Rhineland,”  exquisitely 
depicted,  and  bearing  constant  marks  of  artistic  genius, 
soul,  and  spirit.  Taking  as  his  starting  point  a  section 
of  the  river  which  permits  us,  as  we  slowly  pass 
along,  to  behold  it  continually  increasing  in  scenic  beau¬ 
ty,  Ckampney  gives  us  faithful  topographical  presenta¬ 
tions  of  towering  heights,  each  covered  by  its  ruin  — 
the  little  towns  in  the  valleys,  nestled  around  some 


4 


gothic  pile  —  the  steamboats  and  river  crafts  —  the  sol¬ 
diers,  peasants,  and  burghers  —  the  horses  and  kine  —  the 
vineyards  and  the  harvest  —  each  presented  in  a  light 
strikingly  fitted  to  its  character,  and  with  an  aptness  that  is 
remarkable.  The  twilight,  softly  stealing  away  the  daz¬ 
zling  gleam  of  day,  gives  place  in  its  turn  to  the  silvery 
glint  of  the  moon,  investing  the  storied  ruin  and  the 
craggy  summits,  peering  into  the  very  heavens,  with  a 
sublimity  of  rude  and  indescribable  splendor.  Brief  de¬ 
scriptions  of  the  most  prominent  points  portrayed  may  not 
be  unacceptable  to  those  who  view  the  panorama,  and 
with  a  sincere  hope  that  we  are  thus  aiding  our  well-loved 
friend,  the  artist,  we  present  them  as  culled  from  our  note 
book. 

The  Main,  pouring  its  silvery  flood  into  the  broad 
bosom  of  Father  Rhine,  is  the  first  object  presented.  It 
has  passed  the  wharves  of  Frankfort  some  twenty  miles 
back,  and  on  its  banks,  nearer  at  hand,  are  the  vineyards  of 
Hockheim ,  which  produce  the  wine  called  Hock  ■ — a  name 
which  many  give  indiscriminately  to  every  variety  of  the 
Rhenish  vintage. 

Cassell  is  a  dirty  suburb  of  Mayence,  occupied  by 
the  boatmen  and  the  hangers-on  to  the  garrison  of  Fort 
Montebello.  A  bridge  of  boats  connects  it  with 
the  city,  though  one  may  yet  see  fragments  of  the  piers 
of  a  bridge  built  in  the  year  70,  by  the  twenty-second 
Roman  legion,  which  had  previously  served  under  Titus 
at  the  siege  of  Jerusalem.  The  first  stone  was  blessed 
by  Crescentius,  who  first  preached  the  truths  of  the 
Christian  religion  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine.  Trajan 
built  a  fort  where  Cassell  now  stands,  and  Adrian  one 
opposite  ;  —  the  Romans  fled  over  it  before  the  Germans, 
in  the  confusion  of  defeat- — soon  after  it  was  the  scene 
of  Charlemagne’s  triumphant  entry ;  in  short,  the  mili¬ 
tary  history  of  the  river  at  this  passage,  is  an  eighteen 
hundred  years’  relation  of  frequent  and  bloody  struggles. 

Floating  Mills  are  common  on  the  Rhine,  and  at 
Mayence  there  is  a  formidable  row,  whose  wheels,  turned 
by  the  current  with  a  regular  velocity,  sound  at  night 
like  the  waves  rolling  in  upon  the  sea-shore.  About  the 
time  of  Charlemagne,  Winifred,  a  pious  Englishman, 
visited  Mayence  on  a  missionary  enterprise,  and  had 
such  unexampled  success  that  he  was  canonized  Saint 


5 


Boniface.  His  successors  in  tlie  Episcopal  chair  were  not 
all  as  devout ;  and  one  who  was  reproached  by  the  Pope 
for  the  jovial  life  which  he  led  with  his  canons,  replied, 
u  They  have  more  wine  than  is  needed  for  the  celebra¬ 
tion  of  the  mass,  and  not  enough  to  turn  the  wheels  of 
their  floating  mills  —  why  should  they  not  drink  it  ?” 

A  Steamboat  Landin^,  on  the  Rhine,  is  the  focus 
of  idlers  round  about,  like  the  railroad  depots  in  our 
country  towns.  The  boats,  or  JDampfschiffahrten ,  as  the 
Germans  call  steamers,  belong  to  companies,  and  are 
trim-looking  craft,  gaily  painted,  with  low  pressure 
engines,  which  urge  them  through  the  water  at  the  rate 
of  six  miles  an  hour  when  ascending,  and  fifteen  -when 
descending.  The  captain  occupies  himself  exclusively 
with  the  navigation  of  the  boat  —  the  clerk  collects  the 
fares,  which  are  very  low,  and  an  active  steward  rushes 
about  with  his  bill  of  fare,  soliciting  orders  for  a  mittag- 
essen,  or  mid-day  meal,  no  matter  whether  it  be  early  or 
late.  There  are  three  classes  of  places.  The  first,  or 
small  pavilion,  is  generally  occupied  by  some  nobleman, 
whose  carriage  is  midships  —  the  second  class  is  peopled 
with  English  tourists  wrapped  in  their  egotism,  who  pre¬ 
fer  enjoying  the  smoke  and  heat  from  the  engines  to  the 
cool  air  and  fine  prospect  on  the  plebeian  fore-deck.  The 
third-class  passengers  there  stationed,  are  a  motley 
group  of  ladies’  maids,  students,  soldiers,  and  artists. 
Well  do  we  remember  a  group  of  German  students  we 
met  with  on  a  fore-deck  —  genuine  Burschen ,  with  their 
small  flat  caps,  the  ribbon  of  their  craft,  and  pipes  —  some 
of  them  having  substituted  for  the  cherry  wood  pipe-stem 
a  long  flexible  tube,  which  wound  half  a  dozen  times 
around  their  waists,  like  a  snake.  They  appeared  to 
look  up  to  a  “  Sir  Oracle,”  clad  in  a  gray  frock-coat 
loaded  with  black  braids,  who  ever  and  anon  broke  out 
into  a  song,  his  companions  joining  in  the  chorus.  “  Es 
war  ein  l£cenig  en  Thule”  from  the  opera  of  Faust, 
seemed  to  be  the  favorite.  This  old  king  of  Thule  had  a 
famous  goblet  — 

“  ’T  was  prized  beyond  all  measure, 

At  every  drinking  bout, 

He  gloated  on  the  treasure 
And  drank  —  and  drank  thereout  ” 

1* 


6 


Biberich  peeps  out  after  passing  the  tall  poplars  on 
some  islands  in  the  river.  It  is  a  handsome  palace,  fitted 
up  with  much  taste  by  the  Grand  Duke  of  Nassau,  who 
married  a  near  relative  of  the  Russian  Autocrat,  and 
buried  her  a  year  or  so  afterwards.  He  resides  at 
Biberich,  from  whence  there  is  a  railroad  to  Weisbaden, 
the  capital  of  his  Duchy,  and  the  fashionable  watering 
place  of  Germany.  Some  drink  the  water,  which  is  very 
hot,  as  it  comes  from  the  spring,  and  tastes  like  chicken 
broth  —  but  the  majority  come  to  amuse  themselves. 
The  head-quarters  of  this  last  class  is  at  the  Kursaal,  a 
large  building  embracing  banquet,  dancing,  billiard,  and 
gambling  saloons  ;  and  when  we  were  last  there,  the  latter 
were  filled  every  day  by  eleven  o’clock,  with  earnest 
devotees.  A  deatli-like  stillness  reigned,  only  inter¬ 
rupted  by  the  monotonous  call  of  the  croupier,  “  Make 
your  play,  gentlemen  —  make  your  play.”  Piles  of 
money,  varying  from  one  to  five  hundred  dollars,  in  gold 
or  silver,  were  placed  on  the  checkered  oil  cloth  —  and 
the  rolling  ball  clicked  around  the  sides  of  the  mael¬ 
strom  of  ruin.  All  held  their  breath,  watching  it  with  in¬ 
tense  anxiety.  It  stopped  —  the  croupier  croaked  out 
the  winning  color  and  number  —  money  was  exchanged 
—  the  players  pricked  down  the  results  on  their  tally- 
cards  —  and  the  same  scene  was  repeated.  A  consider¬ 
able  fraction  of  the  players  were  women,  laboring  under 
the  influence  of  sordid  excitement,  which  had  evidently 
broken  down  the  bounds  of  delicacy  and  decorum  which 
should  restrain  their  sex ;  while  selfishness,  villany,  ex¬ 
ultation,  or  despair,  was  personified  on  every  counte¬ 
nance. 

At  four  o’clock  dinner  was  announced  —  a  plentifully 
spread  table,  with  some  pretensions  to  elegance,  at  which 
three  hundred  people  sat  down,  for  less  than  half-a-dollar 
each  —  a  moderate  sum  which  is  not  probably  mentioned 
by  a  large  majority  ot  the  guests  when  they  return  home 
and  boast  of  having  dined  at  the  table  with  the  Duke,  for 
he  was  there  halt  ot  the  time,  in  his  anxiety  to  swell  his 
revenues  by  drawing  crowds  to  the  baths.  After  dinner, 
all  except  the  gamblers  adjourned  to  a  picturesque  garden 
behind  the  Kursaal,  where  an  infantry  band  played  waltzes 
and  marches.  Refreshments  were  served  at  small  tables, 


7 


the  English  making  tea,  the  French  sipping  black 
coffee,  the  Italians  eating  ices,  and  the  Germans  proving 
their  constancy  to  the  malt  liquor  of  their  Teutonic  an¬ 
cestors.  We  saw  several  fair-haired  girls  swallow  at  least 
half  a  pint  at  a  draught,  and  then  go  on  with  the  knitting 
work  all  German  women  carry,  with  a  smack  of  their 
rosy  lips  as  if  it  were  good ;  their  toilets  were  gaudy 
mixtures  of  bad  taste,  ill-fitting  their  clumsy  forms  ;  and 
the  only  things  harmonizing  with  their  bright  blue  eyes 
were  round,  bare  arms,  which  Phidias  would  have  chosen 
for  models.  All  were  apparently  enjoying  themselves  ; 
and  the  polyglot  mass,  who  had  left  without  remorse  their 
Penates,  families,  and  countries,  seemed  fully  determined 
to  create  other  Lares  and  relations  in  a  common  soil, 
governed  by  hilarity  and  good  feeling. 

Returning  to  the  Rhine,  we  come  to  the  portal  of  the 
Rheingau,  that  “Bacchanalian  Paradise,”  remembered 
with  a  sigh  by  those  who  love  to  drain  long-necked  bottles, 
and  replete  with  souvenirs  of  the  Emperors  Augustus 
and  Charlemagne  —  one,  the  head  of  the  Universal  Roman 
Empire,  and  the  other,  the  head  of  the  Universal  Empire 
of  Germany. 

Nieder  Walluf  and  Schieestein  are  two  pictur¬ 
esque  villages,  and  beyond  them  are  the  ruins  of  the  once 
proud  tower  of  Scharfenstein,  once  the  summer  re¬ 
treat  of  the  Bishops  of  Mayence,  and  their  mailed 
knights. 

Ellfeld,  on  the  river  bank,  was  the  capital  of  the 
Rheingau ,  which  was  given  to  the  Bishops  of  Mayence  by 
one  of  the  Carlovingian  kings,  and  retains  the  gothic 
towers  which  they  built. 

Passing  the  country-seats  of  Herr  Langer  and  Baron 
Yrintz,  and  the  Draiser  Hof,  a  large  building,  once 
an  appendage  to  the  convent  at  Eberbach,  we  see  that 
village,  and  the  low  islands  of  Reinaue  and  Lange- 
warteraue,  covered  with  luxuriant  trees,  under  whose 
shade  Charlemagne  used  to  fish.  Plis  unfortunate  son 
Lewis,  driven  by  his  own  children  from  home,  died  on 
the  last  named  island,  a  miserable  fugitive. 

“ Bacchus  amat  colies”  Virgil  tells  us,  and  we  find  that 
all  the  hill  sides  hereabouts  are  planted  with  vines  —  the 
summits  are  too  much  exposed  to  the  winds,  and  the  valleys 


8 


give  too  great  a  growth  of  wood.  The  vineyards  of  the 
Rheingau,  famed  the  world  over,  owe  their  existence  to 
Charlemagne,  who,  finding  that  the  snow  melted  easier 
on  its  hill  slopes  than  in  any  other  part  of  his  empire, 
ordered  them  to  be  planted  with  the  choicest  wines  of 
Burgundy  and  Champagne  —  History  fails  to  inform  us 
whether  it  is  to  him  that  we  are  indebted  for  the  green 
glasses  into  which  the  creaming  libations  of  Rhenish  are 
poured.  The  wine  from  the  Steinberg  vineyard  is  the 
most  esteemed,  and  at  the  last  public  sale,  the  best  cask  of 
it,  or,  as  the  Germans  call  it,  the  Braut,  (Bride)  of  the 
cellar,  was  purchased  for  the  enormous  sum  of  6,100 
florins,  (about)  by  Prince  Emile  of  Hesse.  It  con¬ 
tained  about  600  bottles  of  the  superior  vintage  of  1832. 
The  Markobrunner  vine,  which  grows  on  the  hill  of 
Strahlenberg,  is  so  named  from  a  spring  which  flows 
near  the  high  road,  which  here  runs  on  the  border  of  the 
river. 

Reichartshausen  is  the  country  residence  of  the 
Count  Sclicenhorn,  one  of  the  few  remnants  of  the  old 
noblesse.  Oestrich  and  Mittleheim  are  two  pretty 
villages — and  beyond  them  is  Winkle,  where  the  “  vina 
cella  ”  of  Charlemagne  was  located.  Many  traditions  are 
extant  of  his  fondness  for  the  spot,  or  rather  of  the  treas¬ 
ures  it  contained,  and  the  vine-dressers  firmly  believe 
that  every  summer  his  imperial  spirit  loves  to  wake  from 
its  slumber  of  ages,  and  revisit  his  old  favorite  haunts. 
This  has  given  rise  to  a  beautiful  German  ballad,  called 

THE  SILVER  BRIDGE. 

On  the  Rhine — the  green  Rhine — in  the  soft  summer  night, 
The  vineyards  lie  sleeping  beneath  the  moonlight : 

But  lo  !  there ’s  a  shadow  on  green  hill  and  glade, 

Like  the  form  of  a  king  in  his  grandeur  arrayed. 

Yes,  yes,  ’t  is  the  monarch  that  erst  ruled  this  land, 

It  is  old  Charlemagne,  with  his  sword  in  his  hand, 

And  his  crown  on  his  head,  and  his  sceptre  of  gold, 

And  the  purple  imperial  in  many  a  rich  fold. 

Long  ages  have  fled  since  he  lived  in  this  life : 

Whole  nations  have  perished  by  time  or  by  strife, 

Since  he  swayed  with  a  power  never  known,  from  his  birth : 
What  brings  his  great  spirit  to  wander  on  earth  ? 


9 


He  hath  come  from  his  tomb  that’s  in  Aix-la-Chapelle  — 

He  hath  come  to  the  stream  that  he  once  loved  so  well  — 
Not  to  ban  or  to  blight  with  his  presence  the  scene, 

But  to  bless  the  blithe  vineyards  by  Luna’s  soft  sheen. 

The  moonbeams  they  make  a  brave  bridge  o’er  the  Rhine, 
From  Winkle  to  Ingleheim  brightly  they  shine: 

Behold  !  by  this  bridge  the  old  monarch  goes  over, 

And  blesses  the  flood  with  the  warmth  of  a  lover. 

He  blesses  each  vineyard  on  plain  and  on  hill ; 

Each  village,  each  cottage,  his  blessing  doth  fill ; 

He  blesses  each  spot  on  the  shore,  on  the  river, 

Which  he  loved  in  his  life  —  which  forget  he  can  never. 

And  then  from  the  home  that  he  still  loves  so  well 
He  returns  to  his  tomb  that ’s  in  Aix-la-Chapelle, 

There  to  slumber  in  peace  till  the  old  year  is  over, 

And  the  vineyards  once  more  woo  him  back  like  a  lover. 

The  broad  and  transparent  stream  now  attains  a  breadth 
of  2,000  feet,  and  is  studded  with  islets,  crowned  with  rich 
foliage.  The  chateau  of  Johannisberg  is  conspicuous, 
surrounded  by  its  famous  vineyard,  which  is  some  sixty 
acres  in  extent.  The  vintage  usually  takes  place  a  fort¬ 
night  later  than  in  the  surrounding  country,  as  the  pecu¬ 
liar  flavor  of  the  wine  is  most  apparent  when  the  grapes 
are  on  the  verge  of  rottenness;  and  they  are  so  valuable 
that  those  which  fall  to  the  ground  are  picked  up  with 
little  wooden  forks,  made  expressly.  The  aspect  is 
southern  • — ■  the  soil  is  composed  of  the  debris  of  various 
colored  stratified  marl,  and  the  vines  are  of  the  Riesling 
species.  The  average  produce  is  31,000  bottles,  worth 
about  two  dollars  a  bottle,  although  the  cellars  contain  the 
vintages  of  some  particular  years  which  would  sell  readily 
for  ten  times  the  money. 

The  value  of  Johannisberg  wine  is  however  altogether 
fictitious,  as  the  product  of  neighboring  vineyards  is 
actually  as  good,  but  has  not  been  introduced  to  public 
notice  under  equally  favorable  circumstances.  After  the 
monks,  (who  had  with  their  customary  acumen  obtained 
possession  of  the  vineyard)  were  chased  away  by  Napo¬ 
leon,  he  gave  it  to  Marshall  Kellermann  ;  and.  after  the 
peace  of  Vienna,  the  Emperor  of  Austria  presented  it  to 
Prince  Metternich,  who  in  his  turn  has  lost  it.  Now  in 


10 


those  days,  the  house  of  Rothschild  had  on  hand  a  grand 
speculation,  whose  success  depended  upon  a  treaty  then 
pending  with  Austria ;  and  it  was  indispensable  to  obtain 
the  good  will  of  M.  de  Metternich,  who,  as  secretary  of 
State,  could  smooth  over  certain  difficulties.  A  statesman 
of  lower  calibre  might  have  been  bribed,  but  in  this  case 
it  was  necessary  to  administer  the  golden  pill  with  great 
dexterity  ;  and  after  several  financial  consultations,  old 
Moses  himself  was  intrusted  with  the  mission.  He  ob¬ 
tained  an  audience,  and  commenced  by  unfolding,  in  his 
blandest  style,  his  schemes,  showing  their  practicability 
and  success  —  then  by  a  skilful  detour  spoke  of  the 
Prince’s  recent  present  —  and  concluded  by  asking  if  he 
would  sell  the  Johannisberg  vintage  for  the  next  ten 
years  at  250,000  florins  a  year  ?  The  delighted  Prince, 
for  the  wines  had  no  great  reputation,  signed  the  bargain 
on  the  spot,  and  the  treaty  the  next  day  ;  while  the  Is¬ 
raelites,  having  gained  their  case,  thought  it  best  to  regain 
the  bonus.  So  the/  shut  up  the  cellars,  only  selling  a 
thousand  bottles  a  year,  and  that  at  an  exorbitant  price  ; 
while  the  first  pens  of  the  European  press  have  since  been 
regularly  engaged  to  raise  the  wine  to  that  place  which  it 
now  occupies.  Jules  Janin’s  puff  was  one  of  the  most 
adroit  that  he  has  ever  fabricated  ;  his  fertile  brain  being 
the  only  foundation  for  the  following  paragraph  in  one  of 
his  weekly  dishes  of  gossip  in  the  Debats.  “We  write 
under  Anaereonic  inspiration  this  week,  due  to  the  fond¬ 
ness  of  Madame  la  Princess  Metternich  for  the  chirogra- 
phy  of  all  who  have  any  note,  be  it  good,  bad  or  indiffer¬ 
ent.  Among  the  scribblers  from  whom  her  husband 
begged  a  few  words  for  her  album,  was  the  reader’s  hum¬ 
ble  servant,  who  accordingly  wrote  in  his  best  hand  :  — 

‘  J.  J.  returns  his  sincere  thanks  to  Prince  Metternich, 
for  two  dozen  bottles  of  Johannisberg:  Paris,  1836.’  It 
came  by  yesterday’s  German  courier,  and  is  as  exhilerat- 
ing  as  the  Maronean  of  Homer,  or  the  ‘  Chian  wine  that 
had  never  crossed  the  seas,’  so  elegantly  sung  by  Horace, 
&c.,  &c.”  The  amount  of  the  matter  is,  that  no  costly 
dinner  is  complete  without  this  particular  brand;  and  the 
Rothschilds,  as  usual,  have  coined  their  ten  years’  stock 
into  gold. 


11 


Geisenseim  comes  next  in  view,  with  its  tall  Gothic 
spires  and  handsome  country  seats,  lying  on  the  RotJien- 
berg  hill,  so  famous  for  its  Geisenheimer  wine.  And  now 
we  are  opposite  Rudesheim,  with  its  overhanging  ter¬ 
races,  rising  one  above  the  other,  behind  the  village,  and 
overtopped  in  their  turn  by  the  forests  of  the  Niedenoald. 
All  the  soil  on  these  terraces  is  carried  up  in  baskets. 

The  Brcemserburg  is  a  curious  old  ruin,  the  walls 
of  which  vary  between  eight  and  fourteen  feet  in  thick¬ 
ness.  It  was  inhabited  by  a  chivalric  old  family,  long 
since  extant,  and  tradition  tells  us  that  one  of  the  knights, 
Broemser  of  Rudesheim,  on  repairing  to  Palestine,  sig¬ 
nalised  himself  by  destroying  a  dragon,  which  was  the 
terror  of  the  Christian  army.  No  sooner  had  he  accom¬ 
plished  it,  than  he  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Saracens  ; 
and  while  languishing  in  captivity,  he  made  a  vow,  that 
if  ever  he  returned  to  his  castle  of  Rudesheim,  he  would 
devote  his  only  daughter  Gisela  to  the  church.  He 
arrived  at  length,  a  pilgrim,  at  his  castle,  and  was  met  by 
his  daughter,  now  grown  into  a  lovely  woman.  Gisela 
loved,  and  was  beloved  by,  a  young  knight  from  a  neigh¬ 
boring  castle  —  and  she  heard  with  consternation  her 
father’s  vow.  Ider  tears  and  entreaties  could  not  change 
his  purpose.  He  thi’eatened  her  with  his  curse  if  she  did 
not  obey  ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  a  violent  storm,  she  pre¬ 
cipitated  herself  from  the  tower  of  the  castle  into  the 
Rhine  below.  The  fishermen  found  her  corpse  the  next 
day  in  the  river,  and  the  boatmen  and  vintagers  to  this 
day  fancy  they  sometimes  see  the  pale  form  of  Gisela 
hoverum  about  the  ruined  tower,  and  hear  hei  voice 
mino-lin”  its  lamentations  with  the  mournful  whistling  of 

o  t  O 

the  wind.  .... 

The  Ross  el  is  an  artificial  ruin,  built  in  imitation  of 
an  old  feudal  tower  on  the  height,  and  overlooking  the 
black  pools  and  turbulent  eddies  of  the  stormy  Binger- 
loch  beneath.  This  is  the  “  Hell  Gate  of  the  Rhine, 
and  large  sums  have  been  expended  in  removing  the 
sunken  rocks,  a  work  commenced  by  the  Romans.  The 
Prussian  government,  some  few  years  since,  widened  the 
navigable  passage  from  20  to  210  feet. 

The  Mouse  Tower  is  the  scene  of  Southey  s  ballad, 
which  chronicles  the  fate  of  an  avaricious  Bishop,  who  one 


12 


year  bought  up  all  the  wheat  in  the  neighborhood,  that  he 
might  resell  it  at  a  great  profit.  The  people  complained, 
and  having  been  beguiled  by  the  bishop  to  assemble  in 
one  of  his  barns  (of  course  an  empty  one),  he  set  fire  to 
the  building,  and  destroyed  them,  making  himself  merry 
with  their  cries. 

“  ‘  I’  faith ’t  is  an  excellent  bonfire,’  quoth  he, 

‘  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me, 

For  ridding  it  in  these  times  forlorn, 

Of  rats  that  only  consume  the  corn.’  ” 

But  the  inhuman  Hatto  was  punished.  Out  of  the  ashes 
of  his  victims  sprang  myriads  of  rats,  by  which  he  was 
hunted  from  place  to  place.  Wherever  he  hid  himself, 
they  found  him  out.  If  he  encased  himself  with  wood, 
they  gnawed  through  it.  If  he  built  high  walls  the  rats 
scaled  them,  and  came  up  through  the  floors  from  under¬ 
ground.  At  length  he  retreated  to  this  island  on  the 
Rhine,  and  erected  the  Mouse  Tower,  which,  however, 
proved  no  defence.  The  rats  came  upon  this,  too,  in 
great  numbers. 

“  Down  on  his  knees  the  bishop  fell, 

And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell, 

As  louder  and  louder,  drawing  near, 

The  saw  of  their  teeth  without  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 

And  through  the  walls  by  thousands  they  pour, 

And  down  through  the  ceiling  and  up  through  the  floor, 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and  before, 

From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  below ; 

And  all  at  once  to  the  bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones. 

And  now  they  pick  the  bishop’s  bones ; 

They  gnawed  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 

For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him.” 

Terraces,  sometimes  twenty  of  them,  now  rise  one 
above  the  other,  the  Neiderwald  overtopping  all.  They 
are  supported  by  walls  of  masonry  from  five  to  ten  feet 
high,  and  the  breadth  of  some  of  the  terraces  is  not  a 
yard.  Half  way  down  one  of  these  cultivated  staircases, 


IB 


is  seen  the  ruined  castle  of  Ehrenfels ,  as  if  guarding  the 
dark  and  troubled  Bingerloch  beneath. 

Assmanhausen  gives  its  name  to  the  vintage  of  its 
environs — the  only  red  wine  produced  on  the  Rhine. 
St.  Clementis  Chapel,  a  little  farther  on,  (on  the  side 
from  which  we  gaze)  was  built,  says  Tradition,  by  a  noble 
maiden,  who  had.  been  dragged  from  her  home  by  a 
knightly  ravisher.  A  violent  storm  arose,  and  she  called 
on  St.  Clement  to  save  her  from  drowning,  vowing  to 
build  a  chapel  should  she  escape.  The  saint  appeared 
walking  on  the  water,  and  led  her  to  the  shore,  while  her 
persecutor  perished  under  the  waves.  She  accordingly 
built  the  chapel,  and  the  present  queen  of  Prussia  has 
restored  it  to  its  pristine  beauty. 

And  there  the  Morgenbach,  after  foaming  over  rocks 
and  down  through  the  wild  dells  of  its  native  valley,  pays 
tribute  of  its  waters  to  Father  Rhine,  amongst  vineyards 
and  tangled  underwood,  and  groups  of  huge  overshadow¬ 
ing  trees  —  glorious  scenes  for  a  painter’s  pencil,  and 
admirably  portrayed  by  Champney. 

Looking  across  the  river,  we  see  the  town  of  Lorch, 
its  roofs,  ruins,  and  gothic  spire  bathed  in  floods  of 
light,  nestling  in  the  entrance  of  Viperthal  —  a  vale  of 
whispers,  peopled  by  legions  of  fairies  and  mountain 
sprites.  J ust  behind  the  town  is  a  steep  height  called  the 
Ivedrich  or  Teufel’s  Leiter.  Once  upon  a  time,  as  the 
story  goes,  Garlinda,  a  daughter  of  the  brave  knight 
Sipo,  was  carried  to  the  inaccessible  Kedricli  by  one  of 
the  race  of  blue  winged  spirits  with  eyes  of  rubies  and 
sapphires,  who  occasionally  permitted  themselves  to  be 
ensnared  (like  common  mortals),  by  the  charms  of  the 
daughters  of  men.  The  good  old  woman  who  guarded 
her,  after  four  years’  confinement  became  compassionate, 
and  meeting  the  chevalier  Routhelm,  who  had  just 
returned  from  Hungary,  and  was  tristely  seeking  means 
to  bear  off  the  captive,  she  gave  him  a  magical  golden 
bell  with  a  diamond  tongue.  Sounding  this  at  the 
witching  hour  of  midnight,  thousands  of  agile  dwarfs 
came  to  obey  his  orders,  and  in  a  twinkling  shaped  a 
staircase  in  the  rock,  up  which  he  walked  and  brought 
down  his  lady  love  in  triumph.  So  the  place  has  ever 
since  been  called  the  Devil’s  Ladder.  The  towers  of 
2  ' 


14 


Bacharach  are  here  seen  in  the  foreground,  and  will  be 
described  when  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  town  they 
guard,  from  the  other  side  of  the  river. 

The  old  ruined  castle  of  Gutenfels,  lit  up  by  the 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  was  once  the  abode  of  the 
Countess  Guda,  the  favorite  of  Richard  of  Cornwall, 
brother  to  Henry  III.  of  England,  and  Emperor  of  Ger¬ 
many.  Below  it  is  the  little  town  of  C  aub,  where  the  Duke 
of  Nassau  still  levies  a  toll  on  all  vessels  navigating  the 
river  —  in  feudal  times  thirty  two  chieftains  exercised 
the  privilege.  It  was  here  that  the  German  army  of 
“  Liberators  ”  crossed  the  Rhine  in  1814,  on  their  re¬ 
turn  from  victory.  It  was  witnessed  by  a  friend  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  whose  description  of  it  I  have  found  in  a 
letter  written  by  Mrs.  Hemans.  “  At  the  first  gleam  of 
the  river,”  he  said,  “  they  all  burst  forth  into  the  national 
chant  —  Am  Rhein,  Am  Rhein!  They  were  two  days 
passing  over,  and  the  rocks  and  the  castle  were  ringing 
to  the  song  the  whole  time,  for  each  band  renewed  it 
while  crossing  ;  and  the  Cossacks,  with  the  clash  and  the 
clang,  and  the  roll  of  their  stormy  war-music,  catching 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  scene,  swelled  forth  the  chorus, 

‘  Am  Rhein,  Am  Rhein  !  ’  I  shall  never  forget,”  contin¬ 
ues  Mrs.  Hemans,  “the  words,  nor  the  look,  nor  the 
tone  with  which  he  related  this ;  it  came  upon  me  sud¬ 
denly,  too,  like  that  noble  burst  of  warlike  melody  from 
the  Edinburgh  castle  rock,  and  I  could  not  help  answering 
it  in  his  own  words, — 

’T  were  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life, 

One  glance  at  their  array.” 

The  Pfalz,  a  quaint  castellated  building,  stands  in  the 
centre  of  the  river,  and  looks,  at  a  distance,  like  a  man  of 
war.  In  the  olden  time,  the  countesses  Palantine  were 
required  to  reside  here  for  some  time  previous  to  their 
becoming  mothers,  and  some  of  the  legends  are  curious 
enough.  Latterly,  it  was  used  as  a  prison  for  persons 
of  rank,  and  the  week  before  we  visited  it,  a  curious 
English  traveller  found  his  way  down  into  the  dungeons, 
which  are  below  the  surface  of  the  river.  While  there, 
some  one  turned  the  key  of  the  door  at  the  head  of  the 


15 


staircase,  and  the  unfortunate  cockney  was  imprisoned 

for  some  dozen  hours.  When  liberated,  he  started  for 

home  in  a  bee  line.  Champney  has  invested  this  scene 

with  all  the  beauties  of  a  Rhenish  twilight. 

© 


SECTION  n. 

Oberwesel.  The  frowning  old  turreted  watch-tower 
is  seen  in  the  foreground,  under  the  magic  influence  of 
the  “  queen  of  night,”  whose  silvery  rays  light  up  the 
roofs  and  walls  of  this  ancient  city  (the  “  Vesalia”  of  the 
Romans),  while  the  mountains  rise  proudly  on  the  other 
bank  of  the  river,  in  whose  pellucid  tide  they  are  seen 
mysteriously  mirrored.  The  church  here  was  consecra¬ 
ted  in  1331,  and  has  a  magnificent  altar-peice,  with  a 
side  chapel  in  which  are  effigies  of  the  Schoenberg 
family,  who  were  the  feudal  masters  of  Oberwesel. 
We  give  an  old  legend  of  this  family,  as  a  caution  to 
coquettes. 


“  DIE  SEIBEN  JUNGFRAUEN.  ” 

“  The  Castle  of  Schoenberg  was  lofty  and  fair, 

And  seven  countesses  ruled  there  : 

Lovely,  and  noble,  and  wealthy  I  trow  — 

Every  sister  had  suitors  enow. 

Crowned  duke  and  belted  knight 
Sigh’d  at  the  feet  of  those  ladies  bright ; 

And  they  whispered  hope  to  every  one, 

While  they  vow’d  in  their  hearts  they  would  have  none  ! 

Gentles,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell  : 

’T  is  many  a  year  since  this  befel : 

Women  are  altered  now,  I  ween, 

And  never  say  what  they  do  not  mean  ! 

At  the  castle  of  Schoenberg ’t  was  merriment  all  — 
There  was  dancing  in  bower,  and  feasting  in  hall ; 


16 


They  ran  at  the  ring  in  the  tilt-yard  gay, 

And  the  moments  flew  faster  than  thought  away  ! 

But  not  only  moments  —  the  days  fled  too  — 

And  they  were  but  as  when  they  first  came  to  woo ; 

And  spake  they  of  marriage  or  bliss  deferr’d, 

They  were  silenced  by  laughter  and  scornful  word ! 

Gentles,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell : 

’T  is  many  a  year  since  this  befel, 

And  ladies  now  so  mildly  reign, 

They  never  sport  with  a  lover’s  pain ! 

Knight  look’d  upon  knight  with  an  evil  eye  — 

Each  fancied  a  favored  rival  nigh  ; 

And  darker  every  day  they  frowned, 

And  sharper  still  the  taunt  went  round, 

Till  swords  were  drawn,  and  lances  in  rest, 

And  the  blood  ran  down  from  each  noble  breast ; 

While  the  sisters  sat  in  their  chairs  of  gold, 

And  smiled  at  the  fall  of  their  champions  bold ! 

Gentles,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell ; 

’T  is  many  a  year  since  this  befel, 

Times  have  changed,  we  must  allow, 

Countesses  are  not  so  cruel  now. 

Morning  dawn’d  upon  Schoenberg’s  towers, 

But  the  sisters  were  not  in  their  wonted  bowers, 

Their  damsels  sought  them  the  castles  o’er — 

But  upon  earth  they  were  seen  no  more  : 

Seven  rocks  are  in  the  tide, 

Ober-wesel’s  walls  beside, 

Baring  their  cold  brows  to  heaven : 

They  are  called,  ‘  The  Sisters  Seven.’ 

Gentles,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell ; 

’T  is  many  a  year  since  this  befel : 

And  ladies  now  may  love  deride, 

And  their  suitors  alone  be  petrified !  ” 

They  are  there  in  the  centre  of  the  river,  and  after 
passing  them,  the  shores  become  more  wild  and  dreary — 
no  human  habitations  meet  the  eye — majesty  and  gran¬ 
deur  are  impressed  upon  the  almost  perpendicular  crags 
of  basalt  that  hem  in  the  river,  which  foams  and  boils 
along,  as  if  running  a  rocky  gauntlet.  Towering  above 
the  rest,  is  the  black  precipitous  crag,  called  the  Lur- 
leifels,  once  the  habitation  of  a  beauteous  “  Undine” 


17 


called  the  Lurlei ,  whose  delight  it  was  to  charm  the  pass¬ 
ing  boatmen  into  the  whirlpool  in  front  of  the  crag,  with 
the  magical  sounds  of  her  syren  voice,  and  then  chant 
his  death-song.  Like  all  other  evil  spirits  she  has  at 
length  been  vanquished,  and  the  steam-engine  drowns 
her  fondest  note.  The  echo  from  the  crag  formerly  re¬ 
peated  fifteen  times,  but  now-a-days  the  forlorn  Lurlei  is 
more  chary  of  her  favors,  as,  instead  of  princes  and  myth¬ 
ological  heroes  in  abundance,  she  has  only  one  admirer 
— an  old  French  Hussar,  who  resides  on  the  opposite 
bank  and  awakens  the  echo  with  his  bugle  and  fowling- 
piece.  Hood  says  of  this  spot : — 

“You  see  an  old  man  who  lets  off  an  old  gun, 

And  Lurlei  with  her  hurley-burley  will  mock  it ; 

But  think  that  the  words  of  the  echo  thus  run — 

‘  Take  care  of  your  pocket — take  care  of  your  pocket.'  ” 

The  German  students  amuse  themselves  as  they  pass 
here,  by  asking  the  echo  “  who  is  the  Burgomaster  of 
Oberwesel  ?  ”  After  a  moment’s  pause,  back  comes  the 
answer,  “  Essel,”  which,  being  the  German  for  Donkey,  is 
taken  by  the  magistrate  of  the  place  we  have  just  passed, 
in  high  dudgeon,  and  one  of  them  a  few  years  since  ful¬ 
minated  an  edict  against  the  question. 

Hurrying  on  over  the  foaming  eddies  of  the  Gewirr  or 
whirlpool,  an  abrupt  turn  of  the  river  discloses  the  ruined 
castle  of  the  Katz,  distinctly  defined  against  the  morn¬ 
ing’s  gray  sky,  and  beside  it  the  Schweitzer  Thai  or 
Swiss  valfey,  a  most  romantic  dell,  through  which  a  wild 
torrent,  (the  Frosbach,)  leaps  over  the  rocks  in  pictu¬ 
resque  cascades.  The  Katz,  built  in  1393,  was  once  the 
seat  of  the  proud  Counts  of  Katzenellenbogen,  and  was 
destroyed  in  1807,  by  order  of  Napoleon.  Below  it,  where 
the  Frosbach  empties  into  the  Rhine,  is  the  village  of  St. 
Goarsiiausen,  with  its  ruined  walls  and  watch-tower, 
looking  grim  enough  against  the  gray  mists  of  morning. 
But — 

“  See,  the  night  wears  away,  and  cheerful  morn, 

All  sweet  and  fresh,  spreads  from  the  rosy  east ; 

Fair  nature  seems  revived,  and  every  heart, 

Sits  light  and  jocund  at  the  day’s  return.’’ 

2* 


18 


The  mists  grow  pale — the  light  comes  on  as  we  pass 
the  rocky  heights — and  now  the  dazzling  sun  breaks  forth 
in  all  his  splendor  as  we  reach  the  famous  ruin  called 
Tliurmberg  or  the  Maus.  This  tower  was  built  by  the 
brave  Ivuno  of  Falkenstein,  and  was  contemptuously 
named  by  the  knight,  Posser  of  the  Kat,  but  he  soon 
found  his  mistake,  for  after  a  hard  struggle  the  mouse 
mastered  her  feline  foe,  and  reduced  her  to  a  state  of  good 
behavior. 

The  legend  of  the  “  White  Maiden”  is  connected  with 
this  wild  ruin.  A  young  noble  of  St.  Goar,  while  hunt¬ 
ing  one  day,  pursued  a  stag  to  the  ruin,  where  it  disap¬ 
peared.  He  sought  it  in  vain,  and  as  it  was  mid-day,  an 
August  mid-day  at  that,  he  sought  shelter  in  the  shade  of 
a  ruined  staircase,  saying,  as  he  stretched  himself  out  on 
the  ground  :  “  I  wish  that  some  kind  fairy  would  bring 
me  a  beaker  of  the  Rhenish  wine  which  the  old  women 
say  has  been  buried  for  ages  in  the  cellars  of  this  old  cas¬ 
tle.”  Scarce  had  he  spoken  the  words,  when  a  beautiful 
maiden  stepped  from  a  crevice,  with  a  large  beaker  flow¬ 
ing  to  the  brim  ;  she  was  arrayed  in  white,  “  fair  was  she 
as  a  lily  in  June,”  and  her  loving  eyes  made  the  blood 
course  fast  through  the  hunter’s  heart.  “  Drink  and  be 
satisfied,”  said  she,  and  soon  his  passions  were  inflamed 
by  love  and  wine — but  just  at  that  moment,  the  maiden 
disappeared.  In  vain  did  he  search  for  her — he  only  dis¬ 
turbed  the  owls  and  the  bats,  and  from  that  day  he  was  a 
changed  man.  Wherever  he  was,  but  the  one  thought  of 
her  haunted  his  mind,  and  his  only  pleasure  consisted  in 
ransacking  the  ruins.  The  sun  scorched  him — the  rain 
drenched  him — n’importe  !  At  length  a  deadly  fever 
seized  him,  and  in  his  delirium  he  sought  the  spot  where 
he  had  seen  the  object  of  his  adoration,  that  he  might 
there  give  up  the  ghost.  But  life  would  not  forsake  him, 
and  while  in  great  torment,  the  white  maiden  re-appear¬ 
ed.  She  came  and  bent  over  him — with  a  convulsive 
effort  he  raised  his  head — she  kissed  his  lips — and  with  a 
smile  of  happiness  he  fell  back  and  died.  No  one  has  seen 
her  since. 

The  mists  dissipate  before  the  rising  sun,  climbing  and 
wreathing  the  mountains  behind  the  town  of  Nelmich. 
Passing  the  little  island  of  Woerth,  and  the  rugged  ada- 


19 


mantine  bank  in  which  the  town  of  Kester  is  enshrined, 
we  come  to  the  romantic  castles  of  Liebenstein  and 
Sternberg,  called  “  the  brothers.”  Their  picturesque 
outlines  stand  in  the  picture  proudly  defined  against  the 
clear  morning  sky,  and  we  regret  that  our  limits  restrict 
us  to  one  of  the  many  legends  concerning  them.  We 
give  the  one  called — 

THE  HOSTILE  BROTHERS. 

Yonder  on  the  mountain  summit, 

Lies  the  castle  wrapped  in  night ; 

In  the  valley  gleam  the  sparkles 
Struck  from  clashing  swords  in  fight. 

Brothers  they  who  thus  in  fury 
Fierce  encounter  hand  to  hand ; 

Say,  what  cause  could  make  a  brother 
’Gainst  a  brother  turn  his  hand  ? 

Countess  Laura’s  beaming  glances, 

Did  the  fatal  feud  inflame, 

Kindling  both  with  equal  passion 
For  the  fair  and  noble  dame. 

Which  has  gained  the  fair  one’s  favor  ? 

Which  shall  win  her  for  his  bride  ? 

Yain  to  scan  her  heart’s  inclining; 

Draw  the  sword,  let  that  decide. 

Wild  and  desperate  grows  the  combat, 

Clashing  strokes  like  thunder  fly ; 

Ah  !  beware,  ye  savage  warriors, 

Evil  powers  by  night  are  nigh. 

Woe  for  you,  ye  bloody  brothers  ! 

Woe  for  thee,  thou  bloody  vale  ! 

By  each  other’s  swords  expiring, 

Sink  the  brothers,  stark  and  pale. 

Many  a  century  has  departed, 

Many  a  race  has  found  a  tomb. 

Yet  from  yonder  rocky  summits, 

Frown  those  moss-grown  towers  of  gloom. 

And  within  the  dreary  valley, 

Fearful  sights  are  seen  by  night ; 

There  as  midnight  strikes,  the  brothers 
Still  renew  their  ghastly  fight. 


20 


Bornhofen  Convent,  or  rather  the  church  connect¬ 
ed  with  it,  was,  for  many  years,  a  favorite  resort  of  Pil¬ 
grims,  but  Napoleon,  whose  organ  of  veneration  was  not 
very  strongly  developed,  secularised  it  in  1812. 

Kamp,  a  rather  pretty  village,  is  seated  on  a  plain  be¬ 
tween  the  river  and  the  now  receding  mountains,  and  oc¬ 
cupies  the  site  of  a  Roman  Castrum  or  camp.  Here  we 
see  in  the  foreground  a  group  of  the  horses,  which  are 
used  in  great  numbers  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  for 
towing  up  the  heavy  laden  barges,  against  a  strong  and 
impetuous  current.  Poor  beasts  !  they  strain  every  nerve, 
and  patiently  submit  to  their  heavy  harness,  which  often 
galls  them  to  the  quick.  Champney  has  been  very  suc¬ 
cessful  in  transferring  them  to  his  canvas,  and  while  gaz¬ 
ing  on  them  we  have  almost  fancied  we  could  hear  the 
curses  of  their  brutal  conductor,  or  his  wild  “  ah — a - — a 
— eh !  ah — eu — eu — eu — auh  !”  followed  by  the  cracks  of 
his  knotted  whip. 

The  Peasant-girl  is  also  life-like — a  strong,  straight- 
limbed  creature,  moulded  after  the  fashion  of  the  “Venus 
de  Milo,”  her  eyes  sparkling,  her  cheeks  glowing  with 
health,  and  those  pouting  lips,  which,  as  Byron  said, 
“  would  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite.”  She  has  a 
heavy  burthen  on  her  head,  for  it  is  thus  the  German 
women  go  to  market  with  their  produce.  They  come 
into  the  towns  from  the  villages  around,  often  walking 
seven  or  eight,  miles,  bearing  on  their  heads  huge  baskets 
of  potatoes,  peas,  turnips,  apples,  pears,  plums  or  other 
rural  merchandise,  which  they  expose  in  the  market,  or 
some  particular  street  appropriated  for  the  purpose.  They 
just  set  their  basket  on  the  ground,  and  if  they  have  a 
variety  of  articles,  take  possession  of  a  certain  circumfer¬ 
ence  around,  and  thus  lay  open  to  the  eyes  of  customers 
the  objects  of  sale.  But  going  to  market  is  a  very  light 
part  of  the  peasant  woman’s  work  in  Germany.  We 
have  often  seen  women  threshing,  reaping,  ploughing, 
and  repairing  the  roads.  Thousands  of  the  men,  mean¬ 
while,  are  idling  away  their  lives  in  the  army. 

Filzen,  a  quiet  little  village,  lies  half  embosomed  in 
the  rich  foliage  of  the  luxuriant  nut-trees  on  the  height 
on  the  other  side.  The  Chateau  of  Liebeneck, 


21 


crowns  the  summit,  and  as  we  proceed,  we  see  the  village 
of  Osterspey,  also  on  this  richly  wooded  slope. 

Dunkhloder  thal  now  appears  in  the  distance,  at 
the  end  of  a  glorious  vista,  the  steep  hill  sides  covered 
with  masses  of  foliage,  while  far,  far  away  the  eye  can 
rest  upon  the  distant  heights,  which  prove  the  assertions 
of  Campbell — 

“  ’Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 

And  clothes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue.” 

Here  we  find  an  artist  very  comfortably  seated  under 
the  shade  of  a  monster  umbrella,  sketching  the  beautiful 
landscape  before  him,  to  the  astonishment  of  a  group  of 
gaping  rustics.  The  old  codger  with  a  liay-rake  over  his 
shoulder,  cannot  comprehend  why  any  one  should  wish  to 
portray  what  he  has  seen  every  day  since  he  was  a  boy ; 
and  the  matron  in  a  velvet  cap  seems  determined  to  tell 
her  gossips  how  the  Maler  Amerikaner  executed  his 
task.  Her  baby  seems  quiet  enough,  and  the  chubby 
urchin  in  front  of  her  is  lost  in  wonder — one  of  his  play¬ 
fellows  is  very  much  interested  in  the  cover  of  the  paint 
box,  and  others  are  having  a  loll  on  the  grass.  The  Rhen¬ 
ish  peasants  live  on  rye  bread,  potatoes,  apples,  butter 
and  milk,  and  although  most  of  them  cultivate  vines,  they 
dare  not  eat  a  grape,  or  drink  the  wine — all,  like  the 
Irishman’s  pork  and  beef,  goes  to  pay  the  rent,  and,  what 
does  not  press  so  sore  in  the  Irishman’s  case,  the  taxes. 
These  are  very  oppressive  ;  for  there  is  a  heavy  national 
debt,  a  court  to  be  supported,  and  a  standing  army  to  be 
maintained — the  last  generally  depriving  every  family  of 
an  able-bodied  young  man.  The  Catholics  and  Protest¬ 
ants  worship,  at  different  hours,  in  the  same  churches ; 
and  their  children  are  educated  in  common,  in  accord¬ 
ance  with  a  national  system  of  education,  whose  beneficial 
fruits,  says  a  report,  “  soon  became  perceptible,  in  the 
diminution  of  crime  and  drunkenness  throughout  the 
country.” 

Marksburg  Castle,  on  the  summit  of  a  high  and 
almost  conical  rock,  is  a  fine  specimen  of  a  military 
stronghold  of  the  middle  ages,  having  been  preserved  un¬ 
injured  and  unaltered,  and  is  the  only  original  castle  on 


the  Rhine.  There  are  many  curious  historical  legends 
connected  with  it,  which  were  all  duly  related  to  us  by 
our  guide,  a  sergeant  of  the  Veteran  corps  stationed  there 
as  a  garrison.  He  not  only  showed  us  the  rooms  in  which 
political  delinquents  are  still  confined,  but  led  us  down 
winding  staircases  into  dungeons  in  which  Mrs.  Radcliffe 
would  have  revelled,  with  a  chamber  of  torture  in  which 
the  rack  still  exists.  It  is  a  proud  yet  gloomy  sentinel, 
overlooking  and  guarding  the  beautiful  river  and  the 
cultivated  meadows  on  either  hand,  chequered  with  vine¬ 
yards  and  waving  grain,  and  dotted  with  clumps  of  fruit 
trees.  Well  doth  the  writer  remember  gazing  from  its 
battlements,  as  Scott’s  hero  did  from  Blackford  Hill — 

“  Still  on  the  spot  Lord  Marmion  stay’d, 

For  fairer  scene  he  ne’er  surveyed.” 

The  Kcenigstuhl,  in  the  foreground,  which  next 
attracts  the  attention  in  the  picture,  is  of  modern  erec¬ 
tion,  occupying  the  site  of  the  old  “  King’s  seat,”  which 
for  ages  formed  an  object  of  wonder  and  reverence  for 
the  German  people.  Though  a  small  structure  it  covered 
a  portion  of  four  principalities — the  electorates  of  May- 
ence,  Treves  and  Cologne,  and  the  palatinate  of  the 
Rhine.  It  was  a  plain  octagonal  building,  consisting  of  a 
frieze  supported  by  eight  pillars,  with  a  small  pillar  in 
the  centre.  On  the  top  were  seats  for  the  Electors,  em¬ 
blazoned  with  the  arms  of  their  principalities,  and  one  in 
the  centre  for  the  Emperor,  on  which  were  the  Imperial 
arms.  On  this  platform  some  of  the  mightiest  delibera¬ 
tions  of  the  German  Empire  were  held,  and  in  the  record 
of  the  inauguration  of  Henry  the  VII.  (of  the  house  of 
Luxembourg,)  as  Emperor,  in  the  year  1308,  it  is  spoken 
of  as  a  place  which  had  been  for  a  long  time  devoted  to 
public  ceremonies.  Here  it  was  that  the  imbecile  Empe¬ 
ror  Wenceslas  was  deposed,  and  many  other  important 
steps  taken  by  the  Electors,  “  with  no  canopy  save  that 
of  heaven.”  The  French  revolutionary  army  levelled  it 
as  savoring  of  royalty,  and  for  years  the  only  relic  of  the 
place  was  a  heap  of  stones  in  a  potato  field.  Sic  transit 
gloria  inundi. 

Oberlahnstein,  an  old  walled  town,  is  now  seen  on 
the  opposite  bank,  and  gives  a  good  idea  of  the  appear- 


23 


ance  of  a  fortified  burgh  in  the  middle  ages.  It  is 
mentioned  by  Ausonius  in  his  poem  on  the  Moselle,  as 
celebrated  for  the  beauty  of  its  site  and  the  salubrity  of 
its  air. 

The  Lahn,  which  has  passed  through  the  fertile 
duchy  of  Nassau  and  its  capital,  now  discharges  itself 
into  the  Rhine,  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  surmounted  by  the 
ruins  of  Lahneck  Castle,  once  a  fortress  of  the 
Knight  Templars.  Twelve  knights  of  the  order  once 
heroically  defended  the  whole  castle  against  a  whole 
army,  and  their  prowess  is  still  narrated  by  the  peasants. 

Niederlahnstein,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
Lahn ,  is  surrounded  by  fertile  meadows  and  rich  orch¬ 
ards,  forming  one  of  the  finest  agricultural  landscapes  in 
the  world. 

St.  John’s  Church  lifts  its  ruined  tower  from  the 
thick  foliage  —  it  is  said  to  have  been  reduced  to  its 
present  dilapidated  state  by  a  stupid  lawsuit  about  titles, 
which  lasted  fifty  years  and  ate  up  all  its  revenues. 

On  moves  the  beautiful  landscape,  disclosing  new 
charms  every  moment,  portrayed  with  great  fidelity  and 
beauty.  Horcheim  is  a  small  village  on  the  frontiers  of 
Prussia,  and,  passing  the  island  of  Oberworth,  we  come 
to  Pfaffendore,  overlooked  by  the  battlements  of 
Fort  William  Henry. 


SECTION  IH. 

Ehrenbreitstein  !  “  The  broad-stone  of  Honor.” 
What  an  appropriate  name  for  that  proud  .fortress,  the 
Gibraltar  of  Germany,  which  rises  before  us,  and  is  con¬ 
nected  with  the  city  of  Coblentz  by  a  bridge  of  boats. 
The  earliest  name  by  which  this  most  impregnable  of 
fortifications  is  recognized  in  history,  is  Hermann!  Petra, 
after  archbishop  Hermann,  who  destroyed  a  castle  built  on 
the  summit  in  the  time  of  the  Emperor  Julian,  and  com¬ 
pleted  a  fortification  on  its  site  in  1150.  It  has  since 


24 


experienced  the  vicissitudes  common  to  the  times,  and  at 
one  time,  in  1799,  the  garrison  held  out  so  long  that  cat- 
flesh  sold  for  twenty-five  cents  a  pound.  The  French  at 
last  obtained  possession,  but  before  leaving  it,  blew  up 
the  works,  so  that  it  remained  in  ruins  until  after  1814, 
when  the  King  of  Prussia  devoted  to  its  reconstruction 
his  share  of  the  contribution  which  France  was  com¬ 
pelled  to  pay  the  allies.  Byron  saw  it  while  dismantled, 
and  thus  speaks  of  it  in  his  “  Cliilde  Harold’s  Pilgrim¬ 
age.” 


“  Here  Ehrenbreitstein  with  her  shattered  wall 
Black  with  the  miner’s  blast  upon  her  height, 

Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shot  and  ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  strength  did  light ; 

A  tower  of  victory,  from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baffled  foes  wras  watched  along  the  plain: 

But  peace  destroyed  what  war  could  never  blight, 

And  laid  those  proud  roofs  bare  to  summer’s  rain  — 

On  which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had  poured  in  vain.” 

There  is  a  large  Prussian  garrison  in  the  fortress,  and 
when  we  were  in  Coblentz,  we  did  not  miss  a  single  morn- 
ing’s  parade.  The  infantry  were  a  fine  corps,  with  their 
well  padded  blue  frock  coats,  and  antique  shaped  helmets ; 
they  manoeuvred  with  great  precision,  right  foot  forward, 
like  so  many  machines,  and  marched  with  a  firm  step  and 
free  carriage.  The  men  were  young,  uncommonly  neat, 
well  set  up,  with  full  blue  eyes,  which  shone  with  con¬ 
tentment  ;  their  condition  is  in  fact  desirable,  as  they 
are  not  subject  to  corporeal  punishment,  and  their  monthly 
allowance  of  $5.66  supplies  them  with  better  food  than 
most  of  the  peasants  can  procure,  leaving  a  trifle  for 
beer  and  tobacco.  Their  officers  appeared  to  treat  them 
with  great  kindness,  probably  increased  by  their  recol¬ 
lections  of  the  military  schools,  where  the  pupils,  in  addi¬ 
tion  to  a  thorough  course  of  mathematical  studies,  are 
compelled  to  do  duty  as  privates.  They  then  receive 
subaltern  commissions,  and  rise  according  to  their  merit 
— government  keeping  a  fatherly  eye  upon  their  move¬ 
ments  ;  and  although  the  follies  of  youth  are  not  taken 
into  consideration,  the  least  departure  from  the  char- 


25 


acter  of  an  honorable  man  is  certain  to  be  properly- 
censured  or  punished.  The  yearly  pay  of  the  army,  ex¬ 
clusive  of  rations,  is,  General,  $8,160;  Colonel,  $1,977; 
Major,  $1,222 ;  Captain,  $806;  Lieutenant,  $244;  Ser¬ 
geant,  $70  ;  Corporal,  $47  ;  Private,  $20.  After  a  ser¬ 
vice  of  a  certain  number  of  years,  retiring  officers  and 
soldiers  are  entitled  to  a  pension  ;  unless,  as  is  the  general 
custom,  they  are  installed  in  some  vacant  civil  appoint¬ 
ment.  The  entire  annual  expense  of  each  foot  soldier 
is  estimated  at  $42.96  ;  and  that  of  the  cavalry,  including 
horse-feed,  $143.84 ;  so  that  the  maximum  of  force  is 
maintained  with  the  minimum  of  expense. 

Every  Prussian  is  forced  to  acquire  a  thorough  knowl¬ 
edge  of  the  principles  of  war.  At  the  age  of  20,  if  he 
enters  the  regular  army  for  three  years,  he  is  exempt 
from  further  service,  unless  in  case  of  invasion — other¬ 
wise  he  serves,  between  the  ages  of  20  and  32,  three 
years  in  the  first  division  of  the  Landwehr  or  militia. 
The  second  division  of  this  corps  embraces  all  between 
32  and  39  years  of  age,  who  are  exercised  about  as  much 
as  our  militia ;  and  the  Landsturm ,  or  army  of  emergen¬ 
cy,  consists  of  every  man  in  the  country  between  1 7  and 
50  years  of  age  not  enrolled  in  the  army  or  either  divi¬ 
sion  of  the  Landwehr.  This  universality  of  service  has 
completely  nationalized  the  army,  and  if  Tully’s  doctrine 
be  true,  that  “  all  civil  affairs,  studies,  industry,  and  com¬ 
merce,  lie  under  the  protection  of  warlike  virtues,”  Prus¬ 
sia  is  fortunate,  for  her  sons  have  a  marked  love  for  the 
profession  of  arms.  They  like  that  strange  uncertainty 
of  life,  which  takes  away  all  anxious  care  about  any  other 
provision  than  for  the  passing  day,  revel  in  the  clang  of 
arms  and  the  excitement  of  the  march,  and  if  a  pipe  and 
pencil  are  in  their  tent,  they  feel  that  camp  a  home.  In 
fact,  poets  are  numerous  in  the  ranks,  some  of  their  effu¬ 
sions  breathing  the  fiery  spirit  of  Korner’s  patriotic 
“  Lyre  and  Sword,”  and  others  cherishing  attachments, 
strengthened  and  refined  by  absence,  that  true  test  of 
love,  "which,  like  the  wind,  extinguishes  small  fires,  but 
increases  great  ones. 

This  spirit  was  displayed  when  the  entire  poople  took 
part  in  the  Liberation  war,  to  defeat  the  French,  who  for 
3 


twenty  years  had  so  easily  routed  their  hireling  armies, 
that  Bcranger’s  stinging  reproach  — 

“  En  quatre  jours  on  fait  une  campagne,” 

was  true  enough.  It  would  be  well  if  the  English,  in¬ 
stead  of  egotistically  giving  Wellington  the  entire  credit 
of  overthrowing  Napoleon,  would  recall  the  Duke’s  own 
words  to  his  biographer, — “  remember,  I  recommend  you 
to  leave  the  battle  of  Waterloo  as  it  is,”  and  to  bestow  a 
large  portion  of  the  laurels  upon  the  German  people,  who 
took  the  field  with  a  solemn  pledge  to 

“  Strike  for  their  altars  and  their  fires, 

God — and  their  native  land.” 

Napoleon  himself  justly  observed,  that  it  was  not  the 
coalition,  and,  especially,  not  the  German  Princes,  who 
defeated  him,  but  the  power  of  liberal  ideas,  animating  a 
warlike  people. 

Neuwied,  carries  a  traveller  in  imagination  to  the 
United  States,  every  thing  bearing  a  fresh  white-paint 
look,  altogether  unlike  the  antiquated  towns  in  the  vicin¬ 
ity.  Compared  with  these,  Neuwied  is  a  modern  settle¬ 
ment,  but  little  more  than  a  century  having  elapsed  since 
Prince  Alexander  invited  persons  of  all  religious  persua¬ 
sions  to  settle  here,  under  promise  of  perfect  toleration. 
The  result  was,  that  Protestants,  Jews  and  Catholics,  of 
some  dozen  different  sects,  have  since  lived  together  in 
perfect  harmony — “  children  of  the  same  parent,”  subjects 
of  the  same  moral  government,  candidates  alike  for  a 
future  state — they  are  taught  to  reflect  that  the  articles  in 
which  they  agree  are  of  infinitely  greater  importance  than 
those  on  which  they  differ,  and  that  the  minutite  of  spec¬ 
ulative  opinions  cannot  annihilate  the  primary  duty  of 
brotherly  love. 

The  most  numerous  denomination  is  the  Moravian 
Brethren,  or  Hernhuters,  whose  establishment  numbers 
upwards  of  five  hundred,  all  busily  employed,  besides  as 
many  more  pupils  in  a  school  directed  by  the  community. 
The  sexes  are  nearly  equal  in  number,  and  are  only  sep¬ 
arated  during  those  hours  dedicated  to  repose,  or  their 


27 


different  occupations — taking  their  repasts  in  common  as 
one  great  family.  The  children’s  dormitory,  and  the 
schools  where  they  remain  until  old  enough  to  labor, 
were  very  interesting.  A  young  or  new  member  chooses 
a  profession  suited  to  his  talents  or  taste,  and  the  fruit  of 
all  goes  into  the  general  fund,  from  which  every  neces¬ 
sary  want  is  supplied.  He  can  study  with  philosophers 
or  work  in  the  manufactories,  but  whether  he  gives  his 
attention  to  astronomy  or  pipe-making,  is  expected  to 
dedicate  certain  hours  each  day  towards  the  success  of 
his  labors.  Where  two  of  the  young  people  wish  to 
marry,  their  parents  make  it  known  to  the  superiors,  and 
should  no  obstacle  exist,  they  are  married  with  great  cer¬ 
emony  before  the  whole  community.  They  then  have  an 
apartment  allotted  to  them  in  the  building  dedicated  to 
the  married  sisters,  and  go  on  pursuing  their  separate  oc¬ 
cupations  as  before.  Any  one  insisting  on  leaving,  re¬ 
ceives  a  sufficient  supply  of  money  for  two  years’  support, 
but  cannot  under  any  circumstances  be  again  received. 
There  is  only  one  instance  of  a  withdrawal — a  young  and 
enthusiastic  brother,  the  orphan  of  a  Pole  who  had  died  in 
exile,  leaving  his  child  to  the  fraternity.  His  genius  had 
led  him  to  become  an  artist,  and  he  was  rapidly  gaining 
reputation,  when  the  last  revolution  broke  out,  “  calling 
to  Warsaw  all  her  patriot  sons” — too  many  of  them,  like 
the  young  Hernhuter,  destined  to  fall  before  the  Russian, 
hordes. 

The  Museum  contains  a  valuable  collection  of  natural 
history,  made  by  Prince  Maximilian,  during  his  travels 
in  America,  but  not  in  very  good  preservation.  At  the 
palace  is  a  collection  of  Roman  antiquities,  from  the  site 
of  Victoria,  a  city  destroyed  by  the  Germans  in  the 
fourth  century,  in  which  mirrors,  bracelets,  ear-rings  and 
other  female  trinkets  show  that  the  gentler  sex  were  as 
coquettish  then  as  now. 

The  Teufelshaus,  now  in  ruins,  was  erected  by 
a  Prince  of  Neuwied,  who  was  once  the  terror  of  the  coun¬ 
try  round : — 

“  Doing  his  evil  will  not  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date.” 


28 


and  threw  a  line  of  clievaux-de-frise  across  the  river,  to 
shipwreck  passing  vessels.  The  Lord  Bishop  of  Cologne 
at  last  interfered,  and  hung  him  from  the  highest  turret  of 
his  castle,  since  which,  his  Satanic  Majesty  has  held  night¬ 
ly  revels  in  the  deserted  halls. 

“  Gothic  the  pile,  and  high  the  solid  walls, 

With  warlike  ramparts,  and  the  strong  defence 
Of  jutting  battlements  :  an  age’s  toil ! 

No  more  its  arches  echo  to  the  noise 

Of  joy  and  festive  mirth.  No  more  the  glance 

Of  blazing  taper  through  its  windows  beams, 

And  quivers  on  the  undulating  wave  ; 

But  naked  stand  the  melancholy  walls, 

Lash’d  by  the  wintry  tempest,  cold  and  bleak, 

That  whistle  mournful  through  the  empty  halls, 

And  piecemeal  crumble  down  the  towers  to  dust.” 

Hammerstein  Castle,  now  a  pile  of  ruins,  takes  its 
name  from  its  founder,  Charles  Martel  (the  Hammer). 
The  upper  and  lower  villages  of  Hammerstein,  insignifi¬ 
cant  as  they  now  appear,  were  once  large  places,  and  the 
upper  town  was  strongly  fortified.  When  pedestrian- 
izing  in  those  parts,  we  stopped  one  morning  at  a  house 
near  the  river  bank  to  breakfast.  German  was  then  to 
us  as  a  sealed  book,  and  after  a  vigorous  pantomime, 
accompanied  by  nearly  every  French,  English,  and  Latin 
word  that  we  had  ever  heard  applied  to  food,  we  rejoiced 
to  find  that  the  woman  understood  “  milk,”  for  she  point¬ 
ed  to  a  cow.  We  gave  her  a  bowl,  with  which  she  disap¬ 
peared,  leaving  us  to  wonder  whether  we  should  have  a 
supply  of  the  lactic  fluid,  or  be  served  as  the  lady  was, 
who,  when  in  a  similar  position,  asked  for  a  chicken. 
“  It ’s  a  live  creature,”  said  she,  “  a  bird  —  a  bard  —  a 
beard  —  a  hen  —  a  hone  —  a  fowl  —  a  fool  —  a  foal  — 
it ’s  all  covered  with  feathers  —  fathers  —  feeders  — 
fedders  !  ”  “  Hah,  hah !  ”  cried  the  delighted  Ger¬ 

man,  at  last  getting  hold  of  a  catchword,  “  Ja,  ja, 
fedders, — jawohl!”  Away  she  went,  and  in  half  an 
hour  returned  triumphantly,  with  a  bundle  of  stationers' 
quills.  We  were  kept  so  long  in  suspense  that  we  began 
to  fear  an  equally  ludicrous  misunderstanding,  but  at  last 
had  our  bowl  of  milk  set  before  us,  smoking  hot,  for  the 


29 


good  woman  had  probably  heard  that  such  was  the 
French  custom,  and  boiled  it. 

Lintz  is  a  very  ancient  place,  created  a  city  and  sur¬ 
rounded  with  walls  in  1330  by  the  Electors  of  Cologne, 
on  which  it  was  dependent.  In  1635  Archbishop  Engle- 
bert  erected  a  castle  near  the  river,  in  order  to  collect 
tolls  on  the  passing  boats,  and  to  prevent  the  sanguinary 
encounters  that  so  frequently  occurred  between  the  in¬ 
habitants  of  Andernach  and  Lintz.  The  animosity 
between  the  two  towns  inspired  such  mutual  hatred  that 
neither  youth  nor  beauty  could  assuage  it,  and  the  young 
neighbors  never  intermarried  —  but  of  late  years  the 
torch  of  Hymen  has  entirely  supplanted  that  of  Bellona. 

We  now  see,  in  the  foreground  of  Champney’s  picture, 
rich  fields  waving  with  golden  grain,  which  the  peasants 
are  busy  harvesting,  and  so  natural  do  these  peasants 
appear,  that  we  are  almost  tempted  to  pull  out  our  phrase- 
book,  and  have  a  chat  with  them.  There  is  not  much 
information  though  to  be  extracted  from  a  German  in  the 
lower  classes  of  life,  for  although  Prussia  has  done  more 
than  any  other  nation  in  the  world  for  universal  educa¬ 
tion,  her  working-people  are  in  the  rear-rank  of  civiliza¬ 
tion.  The  best  explanation  of  this  paradox  which  we 
have  seen,  is  by  the  author  of  the  Rural  and  Domestic 
Life  of  Germany ,  who  accuses  the  government  of  neg¬ 
lecting  to  supply  the  people  with  intellectual  aliment  as 
fast  as  their  minds  are  prepared  by  education  to  receive 
it.  The  construction  of  their  language  renders  it  impos¬ 
sible  for  a  man  of  ordinary  education  to  comprehend 
their  best  authors ;  cheap  reprints  of  useful  knowl¬ 
edge  are  unknown,  and  the  strict  censure  to  which  the 
newspapers  are  subjected,  prevents  their  discussing  polit¬ 
ical  and  social  questions  calculated  to  rouse  the  reasoning 
faculties.  All  parents  who  are  unable  to  educate  their 
children  at  home,  are  bound  by  law  to  send  them  to 
school  as  soon  as  they  are  five  years  of  age,  and  masters 
their  apprentices  at  seven  ■ — ■  to  remain  until  they  are 
fourteen,  unless  the  inspectors  are  satisfied  that  they 
have  previously  gone  through  the  whole  elementary 
course.  This  consists  of  the  spirit  and  precepts  of  Chris¬ 
tianity,  the  German  language,  the  elements  of  geometry 
3* 


30 


and  drawing,  arithmetic,  writing,  geography,  history, 
especially  that  of  Prussia,  and  the  elements  of  Physics  — 
interspersed  with  singing  of  a  religious  character,  gym¬ 
nastics,  and  a  careful  inculcation  of  sentiments  of  obe¬ 
dience  to  the  laws  and  fidelity  to  the  sovereign.  During 
the  winter  the  school  is  open  all  day,  in  summer  from 
six  in  the  morning  until  eleven,  after  which  the  pupils 
join  the  rest  of  their  families  in  the  fields — and  it  is  very 
rare  that  they  pursue  their  studies  after  having  passed 
the  requisite  course.  “  They  have  no  time,  and  no  incli¬ 
nation,”  and  although  with  us  universal  education  “  sets 
all  heads  on  fire,  turns  ploughmen  into  poets,  fillers  of 
carts  and  fellers  of  wood  into  philosophers,  millers  into 
metaphysicians,  and  patchers  of  soles  of  shoes  into 
preachers  to  souls  of  men  :  there  is  not  a  glimpse  of 
such  an  effervesence  in  Germany.  The  working  people 
areartisans  and  yeomen,  and  nothing  more.”  Whether 
they  are  happier  than  if  in  a  continual  state  of  agitation, 
figuring  in  the  papers  as  members  of  committees  of 
three  and  sub-committees  of  nine,  and  supporting  a  par¬ 
cel  of  drones  who  live  by  preaching  popular  crusades,  is 
a  question  which  we  have  neither  the  ability  or  the  disposi¬ 
tion  to  discuss. 

The  romantic  Aim  now  glides  into  Father  Rhine, 
having  passed  through  many  a  rich  meadow  since  it  left 
the  rugged  district  called  “  La  petite  Suisse,”  where  it 
takes  its  rise. 

The  basaltic  rock  called  the  Erpeler-lei  is  next  seen, 
with  the  village  of  Erpel  at  its  base,  so  famous  for  its 
Leywein  or  white  wine.  The  hill-side  here  seems  one 
vineyard,  in  which  the  peasants  are  placed  as  were  our 
first  parents,  “  to  dress  and  keep  it.”  They  have  blasted 
such  masses  from  the  basaltic  face  of  the  precipitous 
bank,  seven  hundred  feet  in  height,  as  to  form  a  series  of 
terraces,  which  enable  them  to  put  in  every  cleft  a  bas¬ 
ket,  containing  sufficient  earth  to  nourish  a  grape  vine. 
It  is  estimated  that  the  vines  thus  placed  would  cover  a 
level  space  of  125  acres ;  the  rocks  being  black,  absorb 
such  a  quantity  of  heat  that  the  grapes  attain  a  far 
greater  degree  of  maturity  than  those  in  the  plains  be¬ 
low.  When  we  were  last  there,  the  recent  rains  had 
washed  away  a  portion  of  the  earth  from  the  baskets, 


81 


which  the  peasants  were  replacing  with  the  industry  of 
the  inhabitants  of  an  injured  ant-hill  —  toiling  up  the 
steep  ladders  from  crag  to  crag,  with  heavy  baskets  strap¬ 
ped  on  their  backs.  Three  quarters  of  them  were 
women  —  thick-set,  ugly  creatures,  with  their  braided 
hair  hanging  down  their  backs ;  and  bare  ancles,  of  such 
a  size  that  their  earnings  can  never  be  sufficient  to  pur¬ 
chase  the  requisite  extent  of  hosiery.  As  a  dozen  young 
girls  passed  us,  each  bending  under  a  good  wheelbarrow 
load  of  earth,  we  could  but  recall  the  well-dressed,  intel¬ 
ligent  operatives  in  our  factories,  and  regret  that  some  of 
those  who  would  sacrifice  everything  in  order  to  make  us 
an  exclusively  agricultural  people,  were  not  with  us  to 
make  the  comparison.  These  girls  gained  about  sixteen 
cents  a  day,  each  ;  their  ordinary  food  is  black  bread, 
with  sour  curds,  a  salad,  and  once  or  twice  a  week  a 
small  bit  of  meat ;  and  their  homes  small  houses,  which 
are  cheerless  and  nasty,  in  a  most  superlative  degree. 
The  vines  were  neatly  trimmed,  and  tied  with  straw  to  the 
withes  against  the  rock  ;  and  we  noticed  that  in  hoeing 
them,  a  heavy  top  dressing  was  turned  under. 

It  is  in  this  vicinity  that  enormous  rafts  are  built,  the 
produce  of  the  forests  which  cover  the  remote  hills  and 
mountains  traversed  by  the  Rhine  and  its  tributaries,  — 
the  Neckar,  the  Murg,  the  Main,  the  Moselle,  etc.,  etc. 
They  are  first  hurled  down,  in  single  logs,  from  the  almost 
inaccessible  heights  where  they  have  grown  and  have 
been  felled,  and  are  committed  to  some  rushing  mountain 
rivulet  whenever  its  waters,  swelled  by  rain  or  melting 
snow,  suffice  to  float  them.  If  the  tree  escape  unshattered 
from  the  rocks,  against  which  it  is  dashed  by  the  stream,  it 
is  caught,  bound  together  with  other  logs,  and  again  set 
afloat,  till  it  is  conveyed  by  the  tributary  rivulet  into  the 
recipient  river,  and  reaches  other  stations  on  its  banks, 
where  it  is  again  enlarged,  and  entrusted  to  the  care  of 
boatmen  to  navigate.  It  may  thus  bear  the  same  motto 
as  the  snow-ball,  vires  acquirit  eunclo ,  until,  on  reaching 
this  part  of  the  river,  it  is  carefully  consolidated,  and 
sent  down  to  Holland. 

The  rowers  and  workmen  on  board  one  of  these  rafts 
often  number  four  or  five  hundred,  inhabiting  huts  which 
give  it  the  appearance  of  a  floating  village.  They  are 


often,  (says  a  traveller,)  accompanied  by  their  wives  and 
families  ;  poultry,  pigs,  and  other  animals  are  to  be  found 
on  board  —  and  several  butchers  are  attached  to  the 
suite.  A  well-supplied  boiler  is  at  work  night  and  day  in 
the  kitchen ;  the  dinner-hour  is  announced  by  a  basket 
stuck  on  a  pole,  at  which  signal  the  pilot  gives  the  word 
of  command,  and  the  workmen  run  from  all  quarters  to 
receive  their  messes.  The  consumption  of  provision  in 
the  voyage  to  Holland  is  almost  incredible ;  sometimes 
amounting  to  20,000  or  30,000  lbs.  of  bread  ;  10,000  or 
12,000  lbs.  of  fresh,  besides  a  quantity  of  salted  meat; 
and  butter,  vegetables,  etc.,  in  proportion.  The  expenses 
are  so  great,  that  a  large  capital  is  necessary  to  under¬ 
take  a  raft. 

A  Band  of  Pilgrims,  marching  barefooted  in  the 
dust,  is  a  common  sight  in  this  section,  and  Champney 
has  portrayed  to  the  life  this  fragment  of  the  life  of  the 
middle  ages.  The  women  and  girls,  it  will  be  seen,  have 
carefully  pinned  up  the  skirts  of  their  dresses,  disclosing 
their  many  colored  petticoats,  and  the  mothers  carry  their 
infants  in  then-  arms.  They  are  of  every  age,  these  vota¬ 
ries  of  St.  Appollonarius,  from  the  infants  to  that  gray¬ 
haired  patriarch  with  his  staff,  wallet,  and  leathern  gait¬ 
ers — the  types  of  the  peasants  in  the  etchings  of  “  Hol¬ 
bein’s  Dance  of  Death.”  When  they  have  arrived  at  the 
old  church  of  Remagen,  and  kissed  the  skull  of  St. 
Appollonarius,  they  take  boats,  and  float  down  with  the 
current  to  their  homes,  chanting  anthems.  Most  pleas¬ 
antly  does  the  rich  harmony  of  their  voices  strike  upon 
the  ear ! 

These  Pilgrims  are  Roman  Catholics,  and  it  may  not 
be  amiss  here  to  speak  of  the  secessions  from  that  Church 
on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  which  is,  from  what  we  could 
learn  there,  a  semi-political  movement.  True,  the  seee- 
ders  have  detached  themselves  entirely  from  the  errors  of 
the  Romanists  ;  but,  instead  of  adopting  a  creed,  they  de¬ 
clare  that  Religion  is  to  be  defined  in  the  Scriptures 
alone — that  it  is  essentially  progressive — and  that  it 
should  change  its  teachings  “  as  often,”  to  borrow  the  lan¬ 
guage  of  Shroch,  “  as  new  views  require  it.”  This  makes 
Christianity  a  philosophy,  whose  systems  are  to  be  aban- 


doned  in  behalf  of  others,  as  fast  as  they  are  broached 
by  the  uneasy  spirit  of  sceptic  inquiry,  which,  in  multi¬ 
plying  schools  of  theology,  loses  sight  of  the  primitive 
faith  and  apostolic  character  of  the  original  Church.  The 
same  preachers  who  call  upon  the  people  to  throw  off  the 
trammels  of  Catholicism,  inculcate  the  principles  of  a 
Rationalism  which  regards  the  advent  of  the  Saviour,  and 
the  doctrine  of  Revelation,  as  merely  intended  for  our 
instruction  in  certain  principles,  the  truth  of  which  unin¬ 
spired  human  reason  would  alone,  in  process  of  time, 
have  been  able  to  establish.  Many  of  them  hold  out,  in 
addition,  the  idea,  that  as  all  men  are  equal  heirs  to  the 
hopes  of  immortality,  they  should  be  equal  on  earth — a 
cause  for  secession,  which  should  entitle  them  to  little 
sympathy  from  Ultra- Protestantism,  for  it  makes  the 
matter  a  mere  political  affair.  At  the  bottom  of  it  are 
certain  demagogues,  who,  to  use  the  words  of  Luther, 
“  regard  the  whole  as  a  farce,  to  be  played  for  their  own 
advantage.  It  is,  however,  a  tragedy  in  which  Satan  tri¬ 
umphs,  and  God  is  humbled.” 

The  glorious  Siebengebrige,  or  Seven  Mountains, 
now  bursts  upon  the  river,  presenting — ■ 

“  A  blending  of  all  beauties  ;  streams  and  dells, 

Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  mountain,  wine, 

And  chiefless  castles,  breathing  stern  farewells, 

From  grey  but  leafy  walls,  where  Ruin  greenly  dwells.” 

On  the  right  hand  the  bank  gradually  slopes  from  the 
waters-edge,  chequered  with  orchards  and  wheat  patches, 
vineyards  and  potato-fields,  farm-houses  and  hamlets, 
churches  and  grain-stacks,  in  such  varied  regularity  as  to 
remind  one  of  the  calico  bed-quilts  which  Yankee  girls 
used  to  make  in  good  old  times,  when  the  hum  of  the 
spinning-wheel  had  not  been  supplanted  by  the  Polka. 
And  from  the  midst  of  this  smiling  scene  rises  abruptly 
the  majestic  Drachenfels,  thus  immortalized  by 
Byron — 


“  The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 
Frowns  o’er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 


34 


And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom’d  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 

And  scatter’d  cities  crowning  these, 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 

Have  strew’d  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wrert  thou  with  me. 

And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 

Walk  smiling  o’er  this  paradise  ; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  -walls  of  gray, 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 

Look  o’er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine, — 

Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine  ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 

And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 
Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  ; 

The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound, 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here ; 

Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 

Could  thy  dear  eyes,  in  following  mine, 

Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  !  ” 

The  tradition  giving  the  origin  of  the  name  of  Dracli- 
enfels ,  or  Dragon’s  Rock,  states  that  once  upon  a  time 
the  mountain  was  inhabited  by  a  dragon,  whose  den  still 
exists.  To  this  monster  the  people  paid  divine  honors, 
and  pampered  his  rapacious  appetite  with  human  victims, 
who  were  usually  selected  from  the  enemies  taken  dur¬ 
ing  their  predatory  wars.  It  chanced  that,  among 
other  captives,  a  lovely  virgin  of  high  birth,  who  had  be¬ 
come  a  Christian,  fell  into  their  hands.  Her  surpassing 
beauty  excited  ardent  feelings  of  love  in  two  of  the 
younger  chiefs,  who  disputed  possession  of  her  charms. 
The  elders  of  the  assembly,  fearing  that  an  object  of  so 
much  loveliness  might  engender  discord  and  animosity, 
doomed’the  hapless  maiden  as  an  offering  to  their  dreaded 
idol.  Clothed  in  white  —  meet  emblem  of  her  purity — 
and  crowned  with  a  roseate  wreath,  she  was  conducted 
before  the  morning’s  dawn  to  the  mountain,  and  her  fair 
and  delicate  form  bound  to  the  fatal  oak,  before  which 


was  a  stone  that  served  for  an  altar.  As  soon  as  the  ris¬ 
ing  sun  had  gilded  the  lofty  crags  of  Drachenfels,  and 
emitted  a  faint  ray  of  light  into  the  monster’s  cavern,  with 
sinuous  and  scaly  body,  and  wide-extended  mouth,  he 
writhed  towards  his  prey.  A  large  concourse  of  people 
had  flocked  from  the  surrounding  country  to  witness  the 
tragic  spectacle  ;  and  few  hearts  were  found  unmoved 
with  compassion  at  the  fate  of  the  innocent  and  unhap¬ 
py  victim.  She,  the  source  of  their  commiseration,  with 
beaming  eyes  steadfastly  fixed  on  the  heavens,  and  her 
hands  devoutly  upraised,  seemed  to  await,  with  silent  and 
pious  resignation,  her  impending  destruction.  As  her 
dire  enemy  approached,  feeling  already  the  baneful  in¬ 
fluence  of  his  pestilential  breath,  she  drew  from  her 
bosom  a  small  crucifix,  and  held  with  firm  yet  humble 
confidence,  the  image  of  the  Saviour  opposed  to  the  attack 
of  her  sanguinary  destroyer.  In  a  moment  the  dragon’s 
advance  was  arrested  ;  recoiling  with  horror  and  affright, 
and  sending  forth  dreadful  hissings  and  hideous  yells,  he 
precipitated  himself  into  the  profound  abyss  of  the  neigh¬ 
boring  forests,  and  was  never  seen  or  heard  of  more.  It 
was  owing  to  this  pious  maiden,  thus  miraculously  saved, 
that  the  Drachenfels  became  changed  from  a  mountain  of 
idolatry  to  a  stronghold  of  Christianity,  where  those  who 
had  been  converted  by  the  miracle  worshipped. 

Rolandseck,  on  the  left  bank,  is,  with  the  beautiful 
island  of  Non ner worth  opposite,  the  scene  of  Schiller’s 
Ritter  Toggenburg ,  although  the  poet  transferred  it  to  Swit¬ 
zerland.  Roland,  nephew  of  Charlemagne,  when  on  his 
travels,  fell  in  love  with  Hildegunde,  daughter  of  a  noble 
baron,  and  before  leaving  for  the  Crusades,  found  that  his 
passion  was  reciprocated.  Some  time  afterwards,  a  knight 
brought  the  news  of  his  death,  and  the  disconsolate 
maiden  entered  the  convent  of  Frauenworth,  on  the 
island,  obtaining  a  dispensation  which  abridged  her  no¬ 
viciate.  The  day  after  she  took  the  black  veil,  Roland 
returned  to  claim  her  hand,  having  been  a  prisoner 
among  the  Saracens — and  his  joyous  demand  to  see  his 
affianced  bride,  wrung  from  her  father’s  heart,  in  reply : 

“  Die  ihr  suehet,  tragt  den  Schleier, 

1st  des  Himmels  Braut. 

Gestem  war  des  Tages  Feier, 

Der  sie  Gott  getraut.” 


86 


“  She  thou  seekest  wears  the  veil,  and  has  become  the 
bride  of  Heaven.  Yesterday  morning  witnessed  the 
ceremony  that  betrothed  her  to  God.” 

The  disconsolate  Paladin  built  a  hermitage  on  the  basal¬ 
tic  cliff  overlooking  the  nunnery,  where  he  passed  his  life 
in  gazing  on  its  walls.  One  day  he  saw  a  funeral,  which 
a  voice  whispered  was  that  of  his  beloved.  His  presenti¬ 
ment  proved  true — and  on  the  second  morning  afterwards 
he  was  found  dead  on  his  wonted  seat — his  eyes  turned 
towards  the  grave  of  Ilildegunde. 

Nonnenworth  Island  is  the  seat  of  an  old  convent, 
now  an  inn.  Imagine,  gentle  reader,  the  arched  eyebrow 
of  a  lovely  woman  to  be  the  overhanging  Drachenfels — 
the  pure  white  ball  beneath  to  be  the  smiling  river, 
fringed  by  the  willows  on  its  banks — the  radiant  pupil  to 
be  an  island,  basking  on  the  surface — and  then  the  bright 
iris  in  the  centre  will  give  you  an  idea  of  the  situation  of 
the  Convent  of  Frauen  worth,  where  we  were  greeted 
with  that  warm  welcome  which  the  poet  says  is,  alas  !  so 
peculiar  to  inn-keepers.  The  island,  which  contains 
about  100  acres,  is  as  beautiful  as  was  the  famed  resi¬ 
dence  of  Blenerhasset,  on  the  Ohio,  and  was  selected  as 
a  religious  site  in  the  early  part  of  the  eleventh  century, 
with  the  good  taste  which  all  must  admit  ever  guides  the 
Catholics,  who  seem  properly  to  think  that  the  fairest 
spots  on  earth  should  be  devoted  to  the  service  of  its 
Creator.  For  centuries,  the  Cisterian  sisterhood  added 
to  their  massive  home,  to  which  the  monks  came  from 
afar  on  pious  pilgrimage,  during  Lent,  their  penances, 
lightened  by  the  fine  carp  which  were  taken  at  the  very 
door  of  the  refectory  ;  and  great  was  the  dismay  of  the 
Lady  Abbess,  when,  one  morning,  her  holy  guests  were 
unceremoniously  expelled  by  a  roisterous  band  of  French 
grenadiers,  who  saucily  requested  her  to  follow  suite  with 
the  nuns,  au  nom  de  l’  Empereur.  Luckily,  she  remem¬ 
bered  that  one  of  the  sisters  had  often  spoken  of  import¬ 
ant  services  rendered  to  Josephine,  and  the  two  set  out 
post  haste  for  Paris,  where  they  threw  themselves  at  the 
feet  of  the  empress,  beseeching  her  all-powerful  inter¬ 
cession.  As  usual,  the  wily  Creole  subjugated  the  con¬ 
queror  of  nations,  and  obtained  permission  for  the  nuns 
to  remain  undisturbed  in  their  possessions,  until  the  last 


37 


survivor  had  been  ejected  by  death.  For  twenty  years 
the  Abbess  presided  over  her  decimated  flock,  in  their 
“  banquet  hall  deserted  ;  ”  but,  after  her  death,  the  few 
survivors  sold  their  interest,  and  the  establishment  was 
converted  into  a  hotel,  whose  landlord  has  had  the  good 
sense  to  leave  the  arrangement  of  the  house  unchanged. 
Our  room  there  was  a  cell,  which  had  probably  been  the 
dormitory  of  many  a  jilted  coquette  or  repentant  Magda¬ 
len,  fitted  up  so  snugly  that  we  have  since  been  inclined 
to  let  the  admirers  of  Germany  translate  beliaglichkeit  into 
English  as  comfort — though  a  word  which  has  no  equiva¬ 
lent  in  French.  Down  stairs  was  a  well  stocked  library, 
from  which  we  would  take  Bulwer’s  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine 
as  a  companion,  and  pass  many  an  hour  in  a  summer¬ 
house,  on  the  river  bank.  It  was  refreshing  to  follow  his 
portraiture  of  the  tide  of  human  affections,  unchecked  by 
ingratitude,  and  unsullied  by  impurity,  flowing  in  as  full 
and  clear  a  current  as  that  beneath  us,  while  the  beautiful 
scene  around  was  brought  out  in  a  bold  relief  by  the 
light  of  genius. 


SECTION  IY. 

Having  seen  the  German  or  right  bank  of  the  Rhine, 
from  Mayence  down  to  the  Seven  Mountains,  we  will 
now  cross  the  stream,  and  gaze  at  the  left  bank,  which 
the  French  would  fain  call  their  own. 

Andernach  first  attracts  our  attention  —  a  picturesque 
old  city,  occupying  the  site  of  Antoniacum,  one  of  the 
fifty  fortified  places  erected  along  the  Rhine  by  Drusus 
Germanicus.  It  still  retains  its  battlemented  wall  of  the 
middle  ages,  with  a  massive  circular  tower  on  the  river 
side,  rendered  familiar  to  the  world  by  Stanfield,  Hard¬ 
ing,  and  a  host  of  other  landscape  painters.  The  houses 
are  oaken  frames,  filled  up  with  clay  and  brickwork,  with 
grotesquely  carved  ornaments,  small  leaden  sash  windows, 
projecting  gables,  and  broad  door-stones,  from  which, 
4 


38 


when  there,  we  began  to  think  that  we  should  be  forced 
to  select  a  soft  one  for  a  night’s  resting  place  ;  for  the 
German  peasants  affect  great  contempt  for  those  who 
cannot  speak  Deutsch,  and  would  not  divine  our  panto¬ 
mimic  inquiries  for  a  hotel.  At  last  a  kind  old  woman, 
who  perhaps  had  a  wandering  son,  took  compassion  on 
us  and  led  the  way,  with  an  encouraging  smile,  to  a  snug 
inn,  where  we  found  in  the  common  sitting-room  quite  a 
number  of  intelligent  looking  young  men,  several  of  whom 
spoke  French  with  tolerable  fluency.  We  learned  from 
one  of  them  that  it  was  the  Herterge  of  the  Gildwesen  of 
saddlers,  and  that  the  company  were  all  Gesellen ,  or 
young  workmen  on  their  Wanderscraft.  This  is  a  pil¬ 
grimage  of  four  years,  which  every  German  mechanic  is 
obliged  to  make  after  serving  his  apprenticeship,  working 
in  the  various  places  through  which  he  passes,  in  con¬ 
formity  to  the  laws  of  his  Gildwesen,  or  Guild,  and  re¬ 
turning  with  expanded  ideas  to  his  home.  Their  itinera¬ 
ry  only  embraces  Germany,  but  many  go  beyond  it,  and 
several  of  those  with  whom  we  supped  had  visited  Paris 
and  London  —  in  fact  they  resembled  our  old  school  jour¬ 
neyman  printers. 

The  history  of  Andernach  is  extremely  interesting, 
particularly  during  the  old  German  civil  wars.  On  one 
occasion  some  free-lancers  took  a  beautiful  nun  from  a 
convent  of  noble  ladies,  and  having  stripped  oft’  her 
clothes,  annointed  her  with  honey  — they  then  rolled  her 
in  feathers,  and  seating  her  astride  of  the  tallest  horse  in 
the  city,  with  her  face  towards  his  tail,  they  escorted  her 
through  the  streets  with  jeers  and  scoffs.  When  the  Em¬ 
peror  took  the  place,  shortly  afterwards,  he  punished  the 
perpetrators  of  this  unmanly  outrage  by  ordering  them 
to  be  thrown  into  a  cauldron  of  boiling  oil. 

We  have  before  alluded  to  the  feuds  between  the 
burghers  of  Lintz  and  their  neighbors.  At  Andernach 
a  sermon  was  preached  annually  in  the  market  place,  on 
St.  Bartholomew’s  day,  villifying  the  inhabitants  of  Lintz, 
and  such  an  excitement  prevailed,  that,  had  any  unfortu¬ 
nate  stranger  made  his  appearance  from  Lintz,  he  would 
have  undoubtedly  become  a  victim  of  their  fury. 

The  fertile  region  about  Andernach  is  evidently  of  vol¬ 
canic  origin,  and  the  inhabitants  live  by  getting  out  the 


39 


lava  in  different,  forms,  from  different  quarries.  At  one 
it  is  basaltic,  and  worked  into  mill-stones,  which  are  ex¬ 
ported  in  large  quantities  —  not  far  off,  the  volcanic  ashes 
have  so  incorporated  themselves  with  the  mud  of  a 
dried-up  lake  as  to  form  tufa ,  which,  when  ground  and 
mixed  with  lime,  makes  trass,  the  water-cement  used  by 
the  Dutch  in  constructing  their  dykes  —  from  a  third 
quarry  are  cut  slabs  of  a  compact,  sonorous  stone,  which 
resists  fire,  and  is  called  oven-stone  —  while  coffins,  cut 
from  a  fourth,  so  absorb  the  moisture  of  human  bodies 
placed  in  them,  that  the  Romans  gave  them  the  name  of 
Sarcophagi,  or  flesh-consumers.  Traces  of  these  ancient 
rulers  are  very  common  on  the  Rhine,  and  almost  every 
little  village  has  its  Roman  Museum,  often  containing  cu¬ 
rious  relics.  Among  other  objects  generally  found  buried 
near  the  stations,  are  piles  of  oyster  shells,  showing  that 
the  bivalve  delicacy  was  as  highly  prized  by  the  legions 
of  Caesar  as  at  the  present  day  ;  for  it  must  have  been 
very  expensive  to  have  obtained  them  from  the  sea  coast 
Passing  the  Island  of  Neuwied,  the  shore  is  a  suc¬ 
cession  of  beautiful  fields  and  rich  wooded  plains,  and  we 
soon  arrive  at  the  spot  where  Caesar  crossed  the  Rhine , 
and  where  the  bold  French  revolutionary  army  effected  a 
passage  seventeen  centuries  afterwards,  in  1797.  The 
commander,  who  defeated  a  large  Austrian  force  posted 
to  oppose  his  passage,  was  Hoche,  who,  says  Byron,  “  was 
esteemed  among  the  first  of  France’s  earlier  generals, 
until  Napoleon  monopolized  her  triumphs.”  The  son  of 
the  King’s  kennel-keeper  at  Versailles,  lie  was  fortunate 
enough  to  have  a  kind  old  maiden  aunt,  who  saved 
enough  from  her  profits  as  huckster  to  give  him  a  tolera¬ 
ble  education.  Like  young  Norval,  he  “  heard  of  bat¬ 
tles,”  and  at  sixteen  entered  a  regiment  of  the  line,  pass¬ 
ing  his  time,  when  off  duty,  in  embroidering  smoking 
caps,  from  the  sale  of  which  he  accumulated  a  considera¬ 
ble  military  library.  A  careful  study  of  this  soon  gained 
him  promotion,  and  he  rose  by  successive  steps  to  the 
command  of  an  army  sent  by  the  Convention  against  the 
Vendean  insurgents,  where  by  skilful  guerilla  tactics,  he 
soon  ended  a  warfare  in  which  several  armies  had  been 
mowed  down  in  their  ranks,  as  were  the  British  in  the 
Lexington  retreat.  He  then  attempted  an  invasion  of 


40 


Ireland,  which  was  unsuccessful,  and  his  escape  on  board 
of  la  Fraternite  is  one  of  History’s  most  interesting  pages. 
The  command  of  the  forces  on  the  Rhenish  frontier  af¬ 
forded  him  an  opportunity  of  regaining  his  laurels,  and, 
instead  of  waiting  to  repel  the  Imperial  forces,  he  re¬ 
solved  to  carry  the  war  to  the  opposite  bank.  A  bridge 
of  boats  was  thrown  to  an  island  in  the  middle  of  the 
river  —  that  was  fortified  —  and  the  bridge  was  then  con¬ 
tinued  across,  under  a  galling  fire  from  the  entrench¬ 
ments.  These  were  carried  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet, 
and  it  is  recorded  that  Capt.  Gros,  who  led  the  forlorn 
hope,  having  his  right  arm  shattered  by  a  grape-shot, 
grasped  his  sabre  with  his  left  hand,  and  led  his  men  to 
victory.  Two  day§  afterwards,  Hoche  was  seized  with  a 
disease  occasioned  by  excessive  fatigue,  which  soon  hur¬ 
ried  him  to  the  grave,  in  his  thirtieth  year.  Overlooking 
the  scene  of  his  glory  stands  an  obelisk,  on  one  face  of 
which  is  simply  recorded  : 

L’ARMEE  DE  SAMBRE  ET  MEUSE 
A  SON  GENERAL 
HOCHE. 

As  we  were  landing  near  this  monument,  we  were 
overtaken  by  a  party  of  the  gesellen  with  whom  we  had 
supped  the  night  previous,  carrying  their  heavy  knap¬ 
sacks  without  any  apparent  effort,  and  stepping  off  at  a 
pace  which  we  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  keep  up.  They 
were  accompanied  by  several  tailors,  one  of  whom  had 
worked  two  years  at  Paris,  that  he  might  attend  the  phil¬ 
osophical  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne,  and  had  imbibed 
their  infidel  sophistry  to  an  extent  that  would  have  glad¬ 
dened  the  heart  of  Heinrich  Heine,  the  high  priest  of 
German  radical  transcendentalism.  A  more  intelligent 
person  we  have  seldom  encountered,  and  we  soon  entered 
into  an  interesting  discussion  on  the  Sclavonic  theories  of 
Mitzkiavitch,  which  was  interrupted,  to  our  great  surprise, 
by  the  approach  of  a  post-carriage,  to  whose  occupants  the 
young  eontrovertist  humbly  took  off'  his  cap,  and  held 
it  out  with  a  solicitation  for  a  few  kreutsers.  “You  may 
think  this  strange,”  said  he,  after  his  benefactors  had 
passed,  “but  it  is  customary  for  travelling  mechanics  and 
students  to  solicit  assistance — even  Luther  writes  that  he 


41 


was  wont,  when  young,  to  beg  his  way  from  house  to 
house,  particularly  at  his  native  place.” 

Approaching  Coblentz,  through  a  country  which  is  a 
perfect  garden,  the  traveller  sees — 

“  A  small  and  simple  pyramid, 

Crowning  the  summit  of  a  verdant  mound  ; 

Beneath  its  base  are  heroes’  ashes  hid, 

Our  enemies — but  let  not  that  forbid 
Honor  to  Marceau  !  o’er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush’d  from  the  rough  soldier’s  lid, 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom, 

Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 

“  Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career, — 

His  mourners  wrere  two  hosts — his  friends  and  foes  ; 

And  fitly  may  the  stranger,  lingering  here, 

Fray  for  his  gallant  spirit’s  bright  repose  ; 

For  he  was  Freedom’s  champion,  one  of  those, 

The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o’erstept 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons  ;  he  had  kept 

The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o’er  him  wept.  ” 

Passing  on  through  Neuendorf,  called  “the  kitchen 
garden”  of  Coblentz,  we  leave  behind  the  silver  willows 
and  poplars  which  form  shady  groves  in  the  emerald 
meadows,  and  over  “the  blue  Moselle,”  with  its  bridge  of 
arched  stone. 

Coblentz,  a  name  from  the  Roman,  confluentes,  as  it 
was  called,  because  it  stands  at  the  confluence  of  the  Rhine 
and  the  Moselle,  is  a  strongly  fortified  city.  It  is  the  de¬ 
pot  of  the  Moselle  wine,  a  light  flavored  variety  of  what 
we  collectively  call  Hock,  whose  delicate  aroma  fills  any 
room  in  which  a  bottle  is  opened,  and  is  cited  by  Au- 
sonius  as  reminding  him  of  the  wines  of  his  own  country — • 

“Amnis  odorifero  juga  vitea  consiste  Baccho.” 

The  Schcartzberg,  which  is  the  brand  most  prized,  sells  at 
72  cts.  a  bottle,  and  the  Braunenburg,  Pizorter,  Zehtingen 
and  Grach ,  vary  from  25  to  60  cents.  One  firm  have  al¬ 
ways  a  stock  of  500,000  bottles  on  hand,  in  large  tuns, 
ranged  around  a  cellar  the  Duchess  of  Rutland  says,  in 
her  tour,  an  English  four  horse  coach  could  drive  around 
4# 


42 


in ;  rather  a  suspicious  commentary  on  the  lives  of  the 
Jesuits,  under  whose  ancient  monastery  it  is  built  ;  but 
the  temperance  vow,  like  that  of  chastity,  is  never  very 
strictly  observed  by  the  disciples  of  Loyola.  Coblentz 
has  also  some  commerce  in  Seltzer  water ;  but  the  mili¬ 
tary  occupation  prevents  any  extensive  traffic,  and  ex¬ 
cites  the  due  indignation  of  all  peaceful  utilitarians,  as  an 
exemplification  of  the  evils  incidental  to  a  warlike  atti¬ 
tude.  “Wherever  I  turn  my  eyes,”  says  one  in  his  Je¬ 
remiad,  “I  behold  the  appearances  of  armed  force.  In¬ 
stead  of  seeing  a  town  generously  unbosoming  itself  with 
ample  quays  on  the  Rhine  and  Moselle,  I  perceive  high 
looped  walls  rising  along  the  margins  of  these  fine  deep 
waters,  absolutely  shutting  out  commerce,  and  leaving  a 
petty  traffic  from  a  few  boats  to  be  carried  on  by  a  kind 
of  sufferance,  at  a  quay  of  trifling  dimensions,  situated 
near  the  central  outlet  from  the  town.  Instead  of  seeing 
a  town  stretching  freely  away  into  the  country  behind, 
and  possessing  environs  embellished  with  the  villas  of 
gentry  and  merchants,  I  perceive  a  closely  packed  clus¬ 
ter  of  streets,  bounded  by  ramparts  and  ditches,  and 
guarded  with  cannon.  Amidst  such  emblems  of  barbar¬ 
ism  and  violence,  it  excites  no  surprise  to  see  thorough¬ 
fares,  mean,  foul,  and  swarming  with  a  miserable  popula¬ 
tion — even  the  more  elegant  and  modern  parts  of  the 
town  are  marked  by  certain  symptoms  of  neglect  and 
ruin.” 

An  amusing  commentary  on  the  uncertainty  of  war,  is 
inscribed  on  a  fountain,  at  Coblentz,  erected  by  the 
French  during  their  occupation  of  the  town,  in  1812. — 
Napoleon,  passing  through  the  city,  on  his  Russian  expe¬ 
dition,  the  Prefect  thought  proper  to  commemorate  the 
event  by  an  inscription,  which  also  anticipated  success  ; 
and  when  the  Russians  came  back  as  victors,  instead  of 
lieeing  as  vanquished,  their  commander,  instead  of  oblit¬ 
erating  it,  added  his  vise ,  in  the  approved  style  of  the 
French  passport  offices,  so  that  the  whole  reads  thus  : 


43 


Anno  MDCCCXII. 
Memorable  par  le  Campagne 
Contre  les  Russes. 

Sous  la  Prefecture  de  Jules  Doazan. 


Vu  et  approve  par  nous,  Commandant  Russe 
de  la  ville  de  Coblentz, 
le  1  Janvier,  1814. 

“  Seen  and  approved  by  us,  the  Russian  Commandant  of 
the  town  of  Coblentz,  the  1st  of  January,  1814,”  a  sar¬ 
castic  appendix,  rendered  doubly  obnoxious  to  the  French 
by  the  cutting  recollection,  that  the  Russians  were  com¬ 
manded  by  M.  de  Saint  Priest,  a  Parisian  Bourbonist. 
Three  months  afterwards,  another  French  emigre ,  M.  de 
Langeron,  carried  the  heights  of  Montmarte  at  the  head 
of  a  Russian  column,  both  having  previously  served 
against  their  country,  under  the  command  of  a  more  dis¬ 
tinguished  renegade,  Bernadotte,  who  beat  Ney  at  Denne- 
witz,  and  caused  Napoleon  to  lose  the  battle  of  Leipsic. 

Fort  Alexander,  which  commands  the  city,  occupies 
the  site  of  Chartreuse,  where  Archbishop  Hellinus  estab¬ 
lished  a  colony  of  Benedictine  monks  in  1153,  who  yielded 
their  beautiful  locality  to  the  Carthusians  in  1334.  Below 
it  is  Fort  Constantine,  and  on  the  river-bank  we  see  the 
Electoral  palace,  which  is  now  frequently  inhabited  by 
Frederic  William,  King  of  Prussia.  The  bridge  of  boats 
was  erected  in  1819. 

Oberworth  is  a  large  and  fertile  island,  where  a 
convent  of  nuns  selected  from  noble  families  was  erected 
in  1143,  but  has  long  since  been  secularized. 

The  river-bank  now  becomes  lofty  and  steep,  leaving 
barely  space  for  a  road  along  the  water’s  edge,  and  the 
richest  beauties  of  nature  are  spread  out  with  a  lavish 
hand.  Champney’s  transfer  of  them  to  canvas  is  faithful 
indeed,  and  one  familiar  with  the  scene  can  recognize  the 
massive  nut-trees,  the  orchards,  and  the  fields  which  met 
his  admiring  gaze. 

Kappellen'  is  a  picturesque  little  village,  behind 
which,  half  hidden  by  the  foliage,  we  see  on  the  hill-side 
the  castle  of  Stolzenfels,  whose  commanding  situation 
won  for  it  this  appellation — signifying  Proud  Rock.  It 


44 


is  one  of  the  numerous  fortresses  built  by  the  Archbishop 
of  Treves,  but  was  destroyed  by  the  French  in  1G88,  and 
after  having  been  vainly  o tiered  for  sale  at  seventy 
dollars  by  the  Coblentzers,  they  patriotically  gave  it  to 
the  present  King  of  Prussia,  then  crown  prince.  His 
enthusiastic  admiration  for  works  of  antiquity,  led  him  to 
restore  it  to  its  primitive  condition,  and  it  now  stands, 
with  its  spires  and  gothic  tracery,  as  fine  a  work  of  art  as 
ever  came  from  the  hands  of  the  original  builders — a 
Cologne  lodge  of  Free-masons,  men  who  evidently  were 
well  versed  in  the  speculative  as  well  as  the  operative 
branches  of  their  art,  for  we  find  many  a  “  sign  and 
token”  of  the  craft  in  the  quaint  sculptured  ornaments. 
There  is  on  the  front,  a  large  fresco  painting  representing 
the  visit  of  an  English  Princess,  in  the  olden  time — and 
it  was  here,  in  1845,  that  Queen  Victoria  was  the  guest 
of  the  Prussian  King.  One  of  the  wings  was  for  several 
years  inhabited  by  a  party  of  alchymists,  who  vainly 
sought  to  find  the  philosopher’s  stone,  under  the  direction 
of  an  Archbishop  of  Treves. 

The  ruined  Tower  of  St.  John’s  Church  now  presents 
itself,  between  the  trees  which  line  the  rich  fields  of  grain 
in  the  foreground.  Khense  is  seen  on  the  opposite 
bank,  and  now  the  whole  extent  of  the  canvas  is  filled 
with  a  giant  group  of  nut-trees,  the  foliage  hanging  in 
most  luxuriant  masses,  a  thick  verdant  canopy,  borne  up 
by  many  a  strong  branch.  The  fruit  is  what  we  call  the 
“  English  walnut,”  and  the  peasants  manufacture  an  oil 
from  it,  which  they  use  on  their  salad,  or  for  cooking. 

The  German  students  say  that  Mr.  Howitt’s  book  on 
them  is  a  tissue  of  falsehoods,  the  details  of  which  were 
furnished  by  one  Cornelius,  a  dismissed  usher.  The  other 
descriptions  of  “  student  life”  which  have  fallen  under 
our  observation  have  completely  idealized  it,  and  their 
clubs,  instead  of  ennobling  their  members,  seemed  to  us 
to  increase  the  artificiality  of  their  behavior,  estrange 
them  from  civilized  society,  and,  consequently,  merge  all 
individuality  in  one  common  character,  extravagant,  ec¬ 
centric,  quarrelsome,  and  intemperate.  During  the  two 
first  years  spent  at  the  University,  they  do  nothing  but 
“  go  los”  or  fight  duels,  drink  beer,  smoke  pipes,  and  con¬ 
jure  up  vague  notions  of  freedom.  The  next  year  they 


study  hard,  pass  their  examinations,  and  receive  their 
degrees — ignorant  all  this  time  of  social  society  or  prac¬ 
tical  life.  Going  forth  into  the  world  they  see  their 
errors — the  bright  dreams  conceived  of  restoring  the 
Teutonic  Empire  to  its  pristine  glory  fade  away,  and 
their  fiery  hearts  are  tamed  by  the  cheerless  reality  of 
actual  life.  A  few  years  pass,  and  they  are  peaceful,  con¬ 
servative  citizens,  phlegmatically  opposing  all  ideas  of 
political  liberty — the  very  antipodes  of  the  roistering  sots, 
with  scarified  cheeks  or  sliced  noses,  who  have  succeeded 
them  at  the  University.  These,  in  their  turn,  drain  the 
burschen  cup  to  its  very  dregs,  and  then  become  sober 
Philistines ,  as  their  fathers  have  before  them,  although, 
occasionally,  the  gravest  German  lets  slip  a  slang  phrase, 
and  the  highest  compliment  he  can  pay  to  a  distinguished 
person  is,  “  he  is  a  matadore.” 

We  well  remember  a  dinner  at  which  we  once  “assist¬ 
ed”  (as  the  French  would  say),  in  a  Jcneipe,  or  student’s 
room.  The  proprietor  was  a  young  man  whose  face  was 
seamed  with  two  ghastly  scars,  his  long  hair  floated  in 
luxurious  negligence  over  his  shoulders,  a  velvet  frock 
coat,  covered  with  braid,  was  without  form  or  comeliness, 
while  a  pair  of  buckskins  and  high  postillion’s  boots,  com¬ 
pleted  his  costume.  It  would  be  a  hard  matter,  though, 
to  give  an  idea  of  the  scene  of  revelry,  particularly  the 
vein  of  poetry  and  chivalry  which  ran  through  the  med¬ 
ley  of  boasting,  swearing,  and  singing.  The  songs  them¬ 
selves  were  stirring  even  to  us,  who  had  but  a  faint  idea 
of  their  meaning,  especially  one,  at  the  last  verse  of 
which  every  man  thrust  his  cap  upon  a  sword  held  by  the 
senior,  and  then  laid  his  hand  upon  it  as  he  took  the  oath. 
It  runs  somewhat  thus  : 

“  Come,  rejoice  with  heart  and  voice, 

Mingle  in  the  solemn  strain  ; 

Hark  !  I  sing  of  songs  the  song ; 

Brother  Germans  !  loud  and  long 
Swell  the  chorus  once  again. 

German  sons  !  in  the  fullest  tones 
Chant  the  great,  the  sacred  word, 

Fatherland — thou  land  of  story, 

For  thine  altars  and  thy  glory 

Guard  thou  us,  and  our  good  sword, 

4f 


4(3 


Life  and  all,  we  it  thy  call, 

Vow  to  thee,  in  time  of  need  ; 

Glad  shall  hail  the  battle  hour  — 

Smile  on  wounds — defy  death’s  power 
If  our  Fatherland  should  bleed. 

He  who  knows  not — he  who  shows  not 
German  worth,  in  act  and  word, 

We  his  shame  will  never  share — 

On  no  rapier  shall  he  swear — 

Desecrate  no  German  sword. 

Hymn  again  the  solemn  strain, 

Brothers,  great  and  German  be ; 

Lo  !  the  consecrated  steel 
Feels  as  all  brave  Bursches  feel — 

Pierce  the  cap — ’tis  of  the  free. 

Proudly  gleam,  with  gladdening  beam, 

Rapier — none  shall  dare  profane  ; 

See,  we  pierce  the  cap,  and  swear 
Country,  honor,  to  revere, 

Bursches  without  spot  or  stain. 

The  chivalrous  patriotism  breathed  in  every  line  of  this 
spirited  ode  is  confined,  so  far  as  we  were  enabled  to 
judge  while  in  Germany,  to  the  ideal  students.  The 
more  practical  mass  prefer  das  leben ,  or  the  actual,  and 
aware  that  the  national  importance  of  the  Vaterland  is 
destroyed  by  its  numerous  conflicting  sub-divisions,  they 
look  with  envy  upon  the  more  centralized  governments 
which  surround  them.  It  is  owing  to  this  that  the  Ger¬ 
mans  make  the  best  emigrants,  for  they  have  no  ties  of 
loyalty  to  sever,  and,  although  their  innate  amor  patrice 
may  remain,  phlegmatically  bow  their  necks  to  a  foreign 
yoke.  The  same  feeling  leads  them  to  look  with  indif¬ 
ference  upon  all  domestic  scenery,  to  prefer  the  French 
literature  and  language,  and  to  seek  inspiration  in  other 
lands  and  ages — faults  which  a  recent  English  writer  says 
are  {raining  in  America. 

Revenons  au  Panorama.  The  picturesque  hills  now 
combine  the  stern  and  lovely,  the  grand  and  beautiful, 
while  their  ever-varying  slopes  are  dotted  with  trees, 
whose  leaves,  clad  in  the  rich  livery  of  autumn,  tinge  the 
whole  landscape  with  glowing  colors. 


Niederspey  and  Oberspey  are  two  trim  little  vil¬ 
lages,  and  now,  in  the  foreground,  we  see  the  vineyards, 
with  peasants  busily  engaged  in  the  vintage.  Tubs  filled 
with  the  clustering  fruit  are  being  wheeled  to  the  village, 
and  baskets  of  it  crown  the  heads  of  peasant  girls.  After 
the  grapes  are  trodden  out  in  the  vineyards  quite  in  the 
primitive  style,  and  the  great  tubs  are  afterwards  drawn 
through  the  streets  at  the  vintage  feast,  turned  down,  so 
as  to  show  the  crimson  stain  of  the  grape-juice,  which  in 
new,  white  wood,  has  a  very  pretty  effect.  The  yellow¬ 
ish,  or  brownish  color  of  German  wine  in  America,  comes 
with  age,  (perhaps  from  the  oaken  casks  in  which  it  is 
kept)  but  when  new,  it  fully  justifies  the  Poet’s  epithet 
“  rosy,”  or  “  crimson  wine,”  “  blood  of  the  grape,”  &c. 

At  the  vintage,  the  whole  village  is  the  vineyard  —  the 
blue  eyes  of  the  peasant  girls,  sparkling  among  the  vines, 
speak  volumes  of  love  and  happiness  to  their  rustic  lov¬ 
ers’  hearts,  and  often  the  laugh  at  some  sly  joke,  or  the 
sounding  chorus  of  some  vintage  song,  rings  upon  the 
traveller’s  ear.  Champney  has  here  given  us  a  delicious 
episode  —  an  amorous  youth  decking  his  loved  one  with 
a  Bacchanalian  wreath,  while  another  fair  maiden  looks 
approvingly  on.  Further  on,  two  graceful  maidens, 
dressed  in  their  gala  costumes,  are  seen  descending  the 
vineyard  steps,  arm  in  arm,  with  their  luscious  burdens 
—  undoubtedly  concocting  some  coquettish  plot  against 
the  peace  of  their  admirers  among  the  sterner  sex. 

Boppart  and  Marienburg  are  now  seen  in  the  dis¬ 
tance,  enshrined  at  the  base  of  a  glorious  array  of  moun¬ 
tains.  The  first  named  city  was  the  Roman  station  of 
Bandobriga.  It  was  made  an  imperial  city  in  the  middle 
ages,  and  several  diets  of  the  empire  have  been  held 
here.  The  Gothic  erection  called  Hauptkirche  was  built 
in  1200  ;  it  is  surmounted  by  two  fine  spires,  which  are 
united  by  a  gallery  resembling  a  bridge.  There  is  also 
the  Carmalitenkirche,  an  erection  of  great  antiquity,  but 
no  beauty.  Close  behind  the  town  is  the  great  convent 
of  Marienburg,  which  has  been  a  cotton  mill,  a  girls’ 
school,  and  is  now  a  medical  boarding-house,  where  the 
lovers  of  the  water-treatment  may  be  gratified  to  their 
hearts’  content. 


48 


* 


Groups  of  apple  trees  are  now  seen,  laden  with  their 
golden  fruit  —  they  may  doubtless  seem  exaggerated  to 
some,  but  not  to  those  who  have  seen  the  originals  bend¬ 
ing  under  their  clusters  of  apples.  The  sun  now  declines 
—  the  skies  assume  a  ruddy  hue  —  and  all  nature  glows 
in  the' rich,  warm  light. 

The  Rheinfels  rises  proudly  in  its  decay,  the  light 
streaming  through  its  broken  arches  and  many  ruined 
windows.  This  is  the  largest  and  decidedly  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  ruins  on  the  Rhine ;  its  origin  dates  so  far 
back  as  1245,  but  it  was  repaired  or  rebuilt  some  century 
and  a  half  afterwards.  In  1692,  Marshal  Tallard  prom¬ 
ised  to  present  it  to  Louis  the  Fourteenth  as  a  Christmas 
gift;  he  laid  siege  to  it  with  25,000  men,  but  the  Hessian 
general,  Gortz,  so  well  did  his  duty  that  the  brag  of  the 
marshal  could  not  be  carried  out.  In  1794,  the  French 
took  it  without  firing  a  shot,  the  garrison  having  fled  like 
poltroons. 

Majesty  and  grandeur  are  imprinted  on  every  line  of 
this  noble  landscape,  which  Champney  has  portrayed  as 
he  saw  it,  under  the  magic  influence  of  departing  day. 
The  shadows  deepen  —  twilight  steals  on  —  and  the  old 
tower  of  St.  Goar  is  seen  reposing  quietly  in  the 
dim  obscurity.  In  the  Catholic  church  here  may  be 
found  the  image  of  the  saint  who  gave  the  place  its  name, 
and  who  afterwards  rescued  many  a  boatman  who  prayed 
to  him,  from  the  enchantments  of  the  Lurlei.  We 
spoke  of  this  Undine  as  we  descended  the  river,  but 
among  the  ballads  with  which  Professor  Longfellow  has 
kindly  furnished  Champney,  there  is  one  illustrating  the 
spot,  which  we  must  give  here. 

THE  LURLEI. 

I  know  not  whence  it  rises 
This  thought  so  full  of  wToe ; 

But  a  tale  of  times  departed 
Haunts  me,  and  will  not  go. 

The  air  is  cool,  and  it  darkens, 

And  calmly  flows  the  Rhine  ; 

The  mountain  peaks  are  sparkling 
In  the  sunny  evening  shine, 


49 


And.  yonder  sits  a  maiden 
The  fairest  of  the  fair ; 

With  gold  is  her  garment  glittering, 

And  she  combs  her  golden  hair. 

With  a  golden  comb  she  combs  it ; 

And  a  wild  song  singeth  she, 

That  melts  the  heart  with  a  wondrous 
And  powerful  melody. 

The  boatman  feels  his  bosom 
With  a  nameless  longing  move  ; 

He  sees  not  the  gulfs  before  him, 

His  gaze  is  fixed  above. 

Till  over  boat  and  boatman 
The  Rhine’s  deep  waters  run : 

And  this  with  her  magic  singing, 

The  Lore-lei  has  done  ! 

Oberwesel  receives  the  parting  rays  of  light,  bring¬ 
ing  out  its  old  watch-towers  and  churches.  It  is  an  inter¬ 
esting  old  town,  the  Yesalia  of  the  Romans,  and  there 
are  still  there  many  remains  of  their  power.  The  old 
church  of  Our  Lady,  consecrated  in  1331,  is  a  splendid 
specimen  of  Gothic  architecture,  contains  many  curious 
decorations,  and  has  richly-sculptured  porches  and  curi¬ 
ously-vaulted  cloisters ;  the  choir  being  80  feet  long,  the 
altar  piece  of  carved  wood. 

We  proceed  onward  in  half  obscurity,  when  suddenly 
the  moon  appears  coming  up  from  behind  the  dark  trun¬ 
cated  walls  of  the  gloomy  fortress  of  Stahleck,  once 
the  seat  of  the  proud  Electors  Palatine.  Below,  the 
ruins  of  St.  Werner’s  chapel  catch  the  silver  light. 

Baciiarach’s  spire  and  antiquated  watch-towers 
next  appear.  The  name  of  this  town  is  said  .o  be  derived 
from  Bacchiara,  the  altar  of  Bacchus,  a  name  given  to  a 
rock  in  the  bed  of  the  river,  a  little  below,  generally 
covered  with  water,  but  making  its  appearance  in  dry 
seasons,  when  the  water  falls  several  feet.  The  sight  of 
this  rock,  it  is  stated,  causes  great  joy  to  the  wine-growers, 
for  they  consider  it  a  sure  omen  of  a  good  vintage ;  in 
other  words,  it  is  only  seen  after  a  considerable  length  of 
dry  weather,  and  that  is  favorable  to  the  vineyard. 

Luna’s  pale  rays  silver  the  roofs  and  spire  of  Rhein- 


50 


diebach,  over  which  tower  the  shattered  walls  of  Furs- 
ternberg.  We  are  now  in  the  region  of  the  old  robber 
castles ! 


“  There  they  still  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty  mind, 

Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd, 

All  tenantless,  save  to  the  crannying  wind, 

Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 

There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young  and  proud, 

Banners  on  high,  and  battles  passed  below; 

But  they  who  fought  are  in  a  bloody  shroud, 

And  those  which  waved  are  shredless  dust  ere  now, 

And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow. 

Beneath  these  battlements,  within  those  walls, 

Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions  ;  in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls, 

Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 

What  want  these  outlaws’  conquerors  should  have, 

But  History’s  purchased  page  to  call  them  great  ? 

A  wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  ? 

Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full  as  brave. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields, 

What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died ! 

And  love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields, 

With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride, 

Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would  glide  ; 

But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction  near  allied, 

And  many  a  tower  for  some  fair  mischief  won, 

Saw  the  discolor’d  Rhine  beneath  its  ruin  run.” 

Sonneck,  (beneath  which  is  the  village  of  Heim- 
bach,)  and  Falkenberg,  are  fine  specimens  of  these 
relics  of  feudal  days,  seen,  as  is  the  epoch  of  their  glory, 
in  the  sombre  shadows  of  darkness. 

“  But  look  !  the  morn  in  russet  mantle  clad, 

Walks  o’er  the  dew  of  yon  high  eastern  hill.” 

Rheinstein,  but  a  few  years  since  in  ruins,  has  risen 
fresh  from  decay,  with  all  the  characteristics  of  its  an¬ 
tique  state.  Mr.  Kuhn,  the  architect  employed  by  the 
King  of  Prussia,  has  scrupulously  adhered  to  the  details 
ol  Teutonic  magnificence,  and  the  vision  of  the  tourist 


51 


revels  in  a  faithful  picture  of  the  “  castled  crag,”  as  it 
was  in  the  days  of  its  feudal  pride. 

At  Bingen  the  sky  lights  up  with  bright  and  glorious 
day  behind  the  antique  cathedral,  and  the  old  bridge, 
with  its  narrow  arches,  is  mirrored  in  the  waters  of  the 
tributary  Nahe.  We  have  now  passed  the  Bingerloch, 
where,  as  one  sails  up  or  down  the  river,  he  fancies  that 
his  course  is  brought  to  a  sudden  termination  at  every 
bend.  On  either  side,  rocks  are  piled  upon  rocks,  and 
most  of  the  prominent  eminences  are  crowned  with  the 
remains  of  some  old  creation,  and  the  frequent  village  is 
seen,  the  vines  occupying  positions  on  the  rocks  that  ap¬ 
pear  to  be  almost  inaccessible.  Near  Bingen  it  is  where 
the  Rhine  has  evidently  forced  its  way  across  the  chain 
of  mountains  which  crosses  it  here  at  nearly  right  angles. 
There  are  reasons  for  concluding  that  at  one  time  the 
progress  of  the  river  was  stopped  by  the  chain,  and  that 
the  stream  formed  a  lake  which  covered  a  vast  tract  of 
country,  extending,  indeed,  all  the  way  up  to  Basle.  The 
Rhine  has  not  yet  even  entirely  cleared  its  course  through 
the  great  natural  barrier  which  impeded  it,  and  it  will  be 
recollected  that  in  descending  we  spoke  of  the  artificial 
channel. 

The  Mausethurm,  or  Mouse  Tower,  was  also  noticed 
on  our  downward  course,  as  were  also  the  Rafts,  one  of 
which  is  here  seen.  And  now  the  shores  of  the  kingly 
Rhine  lose  their  character  —  we  leave  the  savage  gran¬ 
deur  of  castle-crowned  cliffs  —  and  see  a  wide  expanse 
of  water,  studded  with  “emerald  isles,”  clothed  in  the 
richest  foliage.  Charming  vistas  succeed  each  other,  and 
we  arrive  at  the  city  from  whence  we  started. 

Mayence,  or  Manz,  or  Mentz,  has  ever  been  a  fron¬ 
tier  fortress,  since  it  was  selected  as  a  military  post  by 
Monguntius,  one  of  the  Trojans  who  escaped  from  the 
flames  of  Ilion.  It  was  a  citizen  of  Mayence,  named 
Walpolden,  who  first  suggested  the  plan  of  freeing  com¬ 
merce  from  the  oppressive  exactions  of  the  knightly  high¬ 
waymen,  with  whose  strongholds  the  whole  Continent 
was  overspread  at  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  centu¬ 
ry,  by  a  confederation  of  cities  which  led  to  the  forma¬ 
tion  of  the  Rhenish,  and  afterwards  of  the  more  famous 
Hanseatic  League.  It  was  in  Mayence,  too,  that  the  old 


52 


Freemasons’  lodges  flourished,  and  the  Minnesanger,  or 
Troubadours,  strung  their  lyres,  towards  the  close  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  The  most  gallant  of  the  latter  class 
lies  buried  in  the  red  sandstone  cathedral,  where  he  was 
interred  with  great  honors,  as  the  following  ballad  will 
show : 


HENRY  FRAUENLOB. 

In  Mentz  ’tis  hushed  and  lonely,  the  streets  are  waste  and 
drear, 

And  none  but  forms  of  sorrow  clad  in  mourning  garbs  appear. 
And  only  from  the  steeple  sounds  the  death-bell’s  sullen 
boom ; 

One  street  alone  is  crowded,  and  it  leads  but  to  the  tomb. 

And  as  the  echo  from  the  tower  grows  faint  and  dies  away, 
Unto  the  minster  comes  a  still  and  sorrowful  array  — 

The  old  man  and  the  young  ;  the  child,  and  many  a  maiden 
fair  — 

And  every  eye  is  dim  with  tears,  in  every  heart  is  care. 

Six  virgins  in  the  centre  bear  a  coffin  and  a  bier, 

And  to  the  rich  high  altar  steps  with  deadened  chant  draw 
near, 

Where  all  around  for  saintly  forms  are  dark  escutcheons  found, 
With  a  cross  of  simple  white  displayed  upon  a  raven  ground. 

And  placed  that  raven  pall  above  a  laurel  garland  green, 

The  minstrel’s  verdant  coronet,  his  meed  of  song  is  seen ; 

His  golden  harp,  beside  it  laid,  a  feeble  murmur  flings 
As  the  evening  wind  sweeps  sadly  through  its  now  forsaken 
strings. 

Who  rests  within  his  coffin  there  ?  For  whom  this  general 
wail  ? 

Is  some  beloved  monarch  gone,  that  old  and  young  look  pale  ? 
A  king  in  truth,  —  a  king  of  song  !  and  Frauenlob  his  name  ; 
And  thus  in  death  his  Fatherland  must  celebrate  his  fame. 

Unto  the  fairest  flowers  of  heaven  that  bloom  this  earth  along, 
To  Woman’s  worth  did  he  on  earth  devote  his  deathless  song  ; 
And  though  the  minstrel  hath  grown  old,  and  faded  be  his 
frame, 

They  yet  requite  what  he  in  life  hath  done  for  love  and 
them. 

A  quaint  looking  old  house  in  Mayence,  is  hallowed 
by  having  been  the  printing  office  of  Gutembukg, 


53 


where,  assisted  by  Jean  Fust  and  Pierre  Sceleffer, 
he  worked  off  the  first  edition  of  the  Bible.  The  inventor 
of  moveable  types  was  christened  John  Gensfleisch,  or 
gooseflesh,  but  assumed  the  name  of  Gutemburg  from  a 
house  given  him  by  his  father.  He  was  originally  a 
sculptor,  afterwards  engraved  on  wood,  and  receiving 
news  of  the  discovery  made  by  Coster,  at  Haarlem,  so 
perfected  it  that  it  may  be  truly  said,  “  the  Germans,  by 
printing,  have  made  men  immortal.”  The  Bible  first 
printed  is  without  date,  in  two  volumes  folio — the  first 
letter  of  each  chapter  is  fancifully  executed  with  the  pen, 
in  colors,  and  the  remainder  in  the  identical  black-letter 
which  the  Germans  still  persist  in  using,  in  utter  contempt 
of  the  fair  Roman  character  elsewhere  adopted.  This 
rare  work  we  have  seen  at  Frankfort,  but  the  Mayence 
library  contains  the  Psalter  of  1459,  the  Catholicon  of 
1460,  and  another  Bible,  dated  1462— four  works  whose 
publication  beggared  Gutemburg,  and  forced  him  to  enter 
the  service  of  the  Elector  of  Nassau,  by  whom  he  was 
ennobled.  He  died  poor  in  1468,  and  a  friend  who  con¬ 
sidered  him  entitled  to  the  credit  of  having  invented  the 
ars  memorice  et  mors  oblivionis,  placed  the  following  epi¬ 
taph  over  his  tomb  in  the  Franciscan  Church : 

D.  0.  M.  S. 

Joanni  Genszfleisch  artis  empressorie 
repertori  de  omni  natione  et  lingua, 
optime  merito  in  nominis  sui 
memoriam  immortalem 
Adam  Gelthus  Jesuit. 

1648. 

In  the  market-place  is  a  statue  of  Gutemburg,  in 
bronze,  by  Thorwaldsen,  cast  at  an  expense  of  five 
thousand  dollars,  raised  by  subscription.  It  represents 
him  standing  by  the  side  of  his  press,  from  which  he  has 
just  pulled  his  first  sheet,  bearing  the  words  —  And  there 
was  Light  —  and  seems  animated  by  a  sort  of  mysterious 
impulse,  which  advances  the  right  foot,  as  if  to  mark  a 
sudden  step  in  human  progress,  while  every  lineament  of 
his  face  bears  the  same  proud  expression  as  that  of  the 
Greek  philosopher,  when  he  cried,  Eureka !  Eureka ! 
The  four  sides  of  the  pedestal  bear  bas-reliefs,  represent- 


54 


ing  the  benefits  which  the  four  quarters  of  the  world 
have  derived  from  the  “  Art  preservative  of  Arts.” 

Such,  gentle  reader,  are  the  remarks  which  we  have 
culled  from  our  note  book,  to  illustrate  our  friend 
Champney’s  faithful  panoramic  representation,  and  to 
make  you  more  familiar  with  the  lovely  and  majestic 
scenes  which  he  has  portrayed  with  such  scrupulous  ex¬ 
actness,  and  artistic  skill.  Critics  will  not,  we  trust,  sit 
in  judgment  over  our  humble  production,  (prepared  in 
the  brief  intervals  of  leisure  which  remain  after  editing 
a  daily  and  a  weekly  paper),  for  it  has  been  a  “  labor  of 
love.”  Love  for  the  talented  young  artist,  who  has 
clothed  the  exquisite  “  Rhineland  ”  with  the  majesty  of 
nature,  peopled  it  with  its  inhabitants,  and  imparted  to 
each  scene  its  peculiar  splendor  —  Love,  too,  for  the  riv¬ 
er  which  delighted  us  when  life  and  all  its  enjoyments 
were  new,  and  whose  remembrances  prompt  us  to  quote, 
in  conclusion,  Karl  Simroch’s 

WARNING  AGAINST  THE  RHINE. 

To  the  Rhine,  to  the  Rhine,  go  not  to  the  Rhine,  — 

I  counsel  thee  well,  my  boy ; 

Too  many  delights  of  life  there  combine, 

Too  blooming  the  spirit’s  joy. 

Seest  the  maidens  so  frank,  and  the  men  so  free, 

As  a  noble  race  they  were. 

And  near  with  thy  soul  all  glowing  shouldst  be. 

Then  it  seems  to  thee  good  and  fair. 

On  the  river,  how  greet  thee  the  castles  so'bright 
And  the  great  cathedral  town  ! 

On  the  hills  how  thou  climbest  the  dizzy  height, 

And  into  the  stream  lookest  down. 

And  the  Nix  from  the  deep  emerges  to  light, 

And  thou  hast  beheld  her  glee  ; 

And  the  Lurley  hath  sung  with  lips  so  white  — 

My  son ’t  is  all  over  with  thee. 

Enchants  thee  the  sound,  befools  thee  the  shine, 

Art  with  rapture  and  fear  overcome,  — 

Thou  singest  for  aye,  “  On  the  Rhine  !  On  the  Rhine  !  ” 
And  returnest  no  more  to  thy  home. 


